Beautiful World
by Artistic Entertainer
Summary: He is a lone vampire, curious to love. She is a sacrifice to keep him away from the village - except that she doesn't remember any of it. As their relationship becomes more complicated, she has an epiphany of sth more shocking than vampires, or even love.
1. Chapter 1

**Beautiful World**

Edward is a lone vampire, curious to love. Bella is a sacrifice to keep him away from the village - except that she doesn't remember any of it. As their relationship becomes more complicated, she has an epiphany of something more shocking than her discovery of vampires, or even love.

**This story has strong violent and sexual content ****not recommended for anyone under 16****. Proceed at your own discretion.**

_Disclaimer:_ _The characters of this story are owned and copyrighted by Stephenie Meyer. This work is written purely for entertainment purposes and it will by no means be used to gain monetary profit._

**Chapter 1**

**_Bella_**

I open my eyes, blinking rapidly in response to the sudden attack of light on my pupils. I raise a hand to shield my eyes but cold hands catch it midway.

Startled, I look down to see a pale, beautiful face. His hand tightens around my left wrist like manacles as the other moves to raise my right one to his lips.

I can only stare uncomprehendingly as he kisses my knuckles, mesmerized by the way his pale lips contrast with the bluish veins on the back of my rough hands. His marble face is eerily still; seemingly alive only by the coal eyes that dance with the rhythm of the fire behind him.

"Do you know why I haven't drained you dry yet?" he murmurs, so quietly that I can barely hear him over the crackling of the fire.

Drained me dry…? I only look at him, dazed and confused.

"You don't remember," he says, eyes gleaming. It isn't a question, so I only look at him before I lift my eyes to take in the alien surroundings.

The room is dark save for the fireplace, and shadows dance across it, suggesting outlines of furniture. It is too dark for me to see anything clearly. I look down, realizing with surprise that I am sitting on a red couch while he kneels on a rug with antique designs.

His cold hands still grip my own.

"Oh, you'll find no clue to your memories here," he says cheerfully.

He is right. Nothing triggers any memories.

"Do you remember your name, dear girl?"

"Bella – Isabella," I say, relieved that my mind still retains that tendril of information.

"Well Bella," he says, the name rolling off his tongue with a quaint little accent, "Welcome to your home." He releases my hands, and is on his feet so suddenly that I blink in shock.

"Come." His arm winds round my waist and lift me effortlessly to my feet. I must have been sitting for a long time because I sway slightly.

As he waits patiently, his sure touch raises a question in my mind.

"Are you," I hesitate. But his eyes are instantly on me, so attentive that I feel encouraged, "Are you my husband?"

He studies me for a moment, his face impassive. Just when I think he will not answer me, he says, "You can put it that way, if you like." He sounds almost pleased, and I wonder what he means by that.

Before I can ask, he says again, "Come." So I follow him, the arm around my waist my only guide. There does not seem to be any electricity. He walks confidently enough though, so I press closer, trusting him not to let me fall.

And suddenly, he laughs; a quiet, humorless laugh tinged with an emotion I couldn't pinpoint.

I look up, bewildered.

**_Edward_**

I had thought she was a liar – a very good one. The delicate flutter of eyelashes when she awoke, those wide brown eyes, and her fragile form tugs at my dull heart in a way that scared me. Still scares me.

When she asked if I was her husband, I had believed it to be a plea – a quiet hint that she wanted to keep up the charade and finish this peacefully. That, I was pleased to grant her.

I hate the ones who scream and scream. It was meaningless. Where would they go, even if I released them? Only the forest lay behind us, and they would either starve to death or be killed by wild animals.

A few whom I released did eventually wander back into the village, and look what happened to _them_ – whipped, slashed and essentially mutilated beyond recognition before they faced gruesome deaths by fire. They were tortured, because the villagers believed them to be reincarnations possessed by evil; that it was the only way to purify their sins and free their souls. All misguided superstition that I am no longer part of…

…_cannot be a part of or take part in…_ Aro's warning from long ago rang in my head on the days I heard the tortured screams and discovered the cruelty.

It was kinder for me to finish them.

These play in my head as I began to lead her to the bedroom, but we barely take a few steps when I feel her press trustingly against me, eyes squinting in the dark. And it was that moment that I see in her body what I cannot see in her mind – she truly did not know what I am.

I cannot help myself - I laugh. I laugh in relief because for the first time I do not have to kill. Not right now anyway.

I offer my hand.

"Come," I whisper again, only this time, it was more natural. Free from murderous intent.


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer:_ _The characters of this story are owned and copyrighted by Stephenie Meyer. This work is written purely for entertainment purposes and it will by no means be used to gain monetary profit._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Previously…<strong>_

_I cannot help myself - I laugh. I laugh in relief because for the first time I do not have to kill. Not right now anyway._

_I offer my hand._

_"Come," I whisper again, only this time, it was more natural. Free from murderous intent._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

_**Bella**_

It is the third time he says it. When I think of this together with his odd laughter, I wonder if he is mad.

I take his hand anyway, because he is my anchor now; I still remember nothing.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"Aren't you hungry?"

I think about that. And realize, yes… yes, I am. I'd just been too disoriented to notice.

He leads me into another dark room and gestures at the vague outline of a chair. I stumble my way into it before he realizes my discomfort and lights a candle.

The room comes alive before my eyes and I see that I'm sitting at a small wooden table surround by three mismatched chairs. A low counter divides the dining room from the kitchen and I can just make out the shapes of cupboards and a stove.

"What do you want to eat?" he asks, leaning against the counter on his elbows. I think I see a flash of excitement in his face.

"I don't know. What do you have?"

"Some vegetables…" his voice trails off uncertainly as he frowns at something in his cabinet.

"You're a…" I frown, searching my foggy mind for the term, "vegetarian?" It perks my interest. I'd only ever _heard_ of foreigners with that strange diet.

His eyes sparkle with laughter again. "You can put it that way," he says, for the second time tonight.

His repetitive speech patterns and rapid mood changes intrigues me, and I stare at him without realizing it.

He notices my expression and quickly sobers up. "I'm sorry for being so... cryptic. But I'll explain more once you've eaten." He smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

He disappears behind the counter, rummaging through the cupboards.

"Do you need help?" I call, rising.

"No, it's fine. Just rest."

I sit back down, thinking of how kind he has been despite his queer mannerisms. Although we are supposedly married, I still feel touched.

"Thank you," I say gratefully, "I'm sorry to be bothering you at such a late hour."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Oh no, not at all," he waves my apology away dismissively as he tinkers with the stove, "I don't sleep much."

In a couple of minutes, he has warmed something. The sight of him cooking strikes me as peculiar, although I'm not sure why.

I'm still trying to figure it out when he sets the steaming bowl in front of me and sits down on one of the chairs. My mind was far away, unfocused.

"I haven't poisoned it, you know," he chuckles after a while.

"Sorry," I flush in embarrassment, as I pick up the spoon. "It's just that – I don't know – my mind's a real mess."

_**Edward**_

I wonder if that's the reason I can't hear her thoughts. As I watch her eat the soup, I feel thankful that I had kept some human food with me.

Sometimes, out of pity, I would give the starved humans - the ones that the villagers leave at the edge of my territory – some food as a dying gift. They were pitiful, often bleeding, gagged and bound, and I can hear them repeat the regret in their minds a thousand times. It is appalling how cruelly the villagers punished petty crimes. I had thought that living in a tight-knit community would inspire more compassion in them.

As Bella eats, I notice her body relaxing – the steadying of her heartbeat, her deeper breaths, and the way she has stopped shaking with hunger.

My eyes cannot stop flickering to her wrists, which are badly chaffed from the ropes. I remember the way I found her – unconscious and wrists tied. Immediately, her silent mind had caught my attention, wavering my resolve to end her life. On a whim, I'd taken her home... and now here she sits.

Halfway through her meal, I note her surprise as she sees her wrists – the slight widening of her eyes and rise of her eyebrows. She doesn't comment on them, and I don't know whether she is unconcerned or simply uncomfortable.

"I'll help you with that," I say softly.

She seems caught off-guard by my attentiveness and flushes. "Thank you."

When I return with some medication, her expression is strangely chagrinned. I tilt my head, trying to understand. As my gift usually lets me comprehend the matter immediately, her silent mind frustrates me.

I don't have to wonder long though.

"I'm sorry," she says timidly, "What should I call you?"

"Edward." I tear off some clean cotton from the packet and dab some alcohol onto her wrist. She stares at it in wonder, and I'm reminded of the fact that she is from a village.

"Edward," she repeats, and I find it strangely pleasing to hear someone utter my name after half a century of seclusion.

"Do you have any idea who I am?" she asks curiously, "How we got together, anything about my life…"

I exhaled slowly, feeling apprehensive. "I don't know much, but I can try. One question at a time?"

She thinks about this as I finish cleaning her wounds and start applying some cream on them.

"Okay… so how did we get married?"

"Your parents sent you to me," I say, after a pause. It wasn't exactly the truth, but it wasn't a lie.

"Why? Can I meet them?" she asks, and then quickly corrects herself, "Sorry, one question at a time. Yeah, I mean, why would they just give me away?"

There is a hint of sadness in her voice.

"I don't know," I admit, "But I believe they think it'll keep me happy." It sounds incredibly unpleasant, yet it's the closest I can get to the truth. It is not a wonder that she falls silent as she considers this.

Even after I'm done bandaging, she hasn't asked her next question. So I wait, watching her.

The way she looks in the flickering light - the soft skin on her face, the knitting together of her brows and lips still glistening with soup - awakens something with me. I have a sudden, incomprehensible urge to touch her. To feel the fragile, satiny skin and the warm pulse beneath.

Before I know it, my palm is resting against the side of her face. The tips of my fingers just touch her neck, and her eyes flash to meet mine, bright with surprise.

"You _will_ make me happy, won't you?" I murmur, looking up into her eyes as I stroke my thumb back and forth across her cheek - soft and delicate, as I expected.

I'm pushing her, and I know it.

How long would it take before she finds out? Because I feel myself growing fond of her, and she will never love me in return - not if she knows what I am. I might as well end it now before it becomes too painful.

I see the fastest way to do it - a quick movement of my hand and I will crush her skull. She wouldn't have time feel any pain - few ever did. I feel a slight tremor run through her body, presumably from fear, and prepare to do the unthinkable.

Until I smell her arousal.

It astonishes me so deeply that for a moment, I cannot think. When I recover, I gaze raptly into her brown eyes, fascinated by her idiosyncrasy. And again I find myself desperately wishing I could hear her mind.

She looks away eventually and releases a shaky breath. Her lips form an answer to a question that I have long forgotten.

"I'll… try."

Her trusting, childlike disposition disconcerts me. I drop my hand, feeling more than a little guilty. It should be _against_ human instincts to react so favorably to a vampire! And what a dutiful child she is - she does not even think to question her own happiness, a question that rings loudly in _my_ mind.

Sighing, I ask, "Do you have any more questions?"

She doesn't answer immediately, and I can see her visibly steeling herself this time. I make sure my expression remains receptive while bracing myself to face whatever difficult question she has in mind. My stomach tightens unpleasantly and I hope it is nothing too difficult.

Her words tumble out in a rush, sounding almost indignant, "Why is your happiness so important to them?" Her eyes have that vulnerable look, but she holds her ground. The implied questions hang thick in the air - _w__hy do they care more about you?__ Did you threaten them?_

I internally applaud her. Although poorly timed for her sake, it is her first demonstration of self-preservation.

I also feel immensely relieved - the question itself is a little tricky, but nothing as bad as I was expecting. It takes me a moment for me to find a safe response.

"Let's just say that they took my words a little too far when I told them to stop trespassing on my... property."

I can see her struggling to digest that.

Good. It would give her something to think of for the next few days. Meanwhile, I need to find a way to keep my half-truths from tangling...

"Bed time?"

She nodded. She looks so tired that I pick her up and carry her in my arms. At first, I feel her body stiffen and hear her gasp of surprise. But as the tiredness wins, she rests her head in the crook of my shoulder in surrender, delicate arms encircling my neck.


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer:_ _The characters of this story are owned and copyrighted by Stephenie Meyer. This work is written purely for entertainment purposes and it will by no means be used to gain monetary profit._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Previously…<strong>_

_"Bed time?"_

_She nodded. She looks so tired that I pick her up and carry her in my arms. At first, I feel her body stiffen and hear her gasp of surprise. But as the tiredness wins, she rests her head in the crook of my shoulder in surrender, delicate arms encircling my neck._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

_**Edward**_

I shut the bedroom door and slump down onto the floor.

_What have I done?_

I don't know – that's the problem. I still don't understand the madness that possessed me to bring her here, still alive.

What am I going to do with her now?

I can't bring myself to kill her, and the thought of leaving her to die is equally bad.

I clench my fists in frustration, expelling the breath I didn't even realize I was holding.

The whole house smells like her. She is all over my clothes, on my armchair, and her scent is diffusing rapidly throughout the room, adding to my torment.

I'd been amused by her vegetarian comment because I abstain from drinking blood, the way a human being would abstain from eating meat.

The last time I tasted blood on my tongue was decades ago. The intensifying rawness in my throat had become a constant, excruciating reminder of my choice. The pain doesn't matter though –nothing did, except the fact that I'm still alive.

_Patience_, I keep telling myself.

The others may not think that we can die from blood deprivation, but only because they can't _not_ drink when the thirst becomes unbearable.

I'm different.

_**Bella**_

I can't sleep.

Every time I close my eyes, the hair at the back of my neck begins to prickle with dread. The whole room seems to close in on me, the darkness putting a heavy pressure on my chest. Despite my exhaustion, my whole body feels restless and tight with inexplicable anxiety.

After tossing and turning for what feels like forever, I get up and stretch out on the floor. The cool cement feels soothing against my heat. It reminds me of Edward's skin.

The moment I start thinking about him, I couldn't stop.

Where is he? Outside?

I try the door and it creaks open. To my surprise, he is on the floor, knees pulled up to his chest as he leans back against the wall. His eyes are closed, and he appears to be sleeping.

I feel a lump rising in my throat. He gave me his bed?

"Edward," I whisper. But he doesn't stir.

He looks so uncomfortable, and it makes me feel tremendously guilty. I can't just go back to sleep and leave him on the floor! I bit my lip, hands on my hips as I wondered what to do.

Then I have an idea.

_**Edward**_

If I thought that pretending to sleep would make her go away, then I am clearly wrong. I hear rustling noises and her footsteps as she tries – and fails – to be quiet.

My curiosity is killing me, but I daren't open my eyes. I barely dare to breath.

I feel her hand carefully supporting my head as she tries to wedge a pillow between my back and the wall.

After a few unsuccessful attempts – one of where she magically stubbed her toe against the wall – I finally decide to do something.

I shift forward a little, feeling immensely awkward.

"Shh," she shushes, as though I were a small child. And that's when something snaps within me.

I quickly bite down on my tongue to choke back my laughter.

It is too entertaining.

What else does she plan to do? Tuck me in and read to me? Prop up teddy bears around me? I think of myself – an evil, soulless creature – surrounded by teddy bears as I pretend to sleep, and nearly crack up again.

The humour is evidently lost on her because she resumes fussing over me like an overprotective mother. Her hands feel around my cold skin and a blanket flutters down over me. I can even feel her tucking in the corners, bless her.

Meanwhile, I send a prayer to an imaginary vampire deity with hopes that she doesn't return to check my temperature. Or my pulse, for that matter.

I'm just beginning to consider getting a hot water bottle, when she proceeds to pace up and down the hall like a demented ghoul. As though _she's_ the one haunting _my_ house. How ironic.

I patiently counted the first ninety-seven minutes, after which I decide to put my foot down. I could take no more of her plodding. Her footsteps echo loudly in my head, giving me something close to a migraine.

I pretend to stir sleepily, stretching exaggeratedly. She doesn't see me.

"Bella?" I call.

No answer.

"Bella," I try again, but like before, she doesn't respond.

_**Bella**_

I have to keep moving. Must keep moving, must keep moving... The compulsion takes over and I walk mindlessly.

Bella. I think I hear someone call from very far away.

Bella.

Bella!

What? I try to say, but find that I couldn't speak.

I want to keep walking, but someone is stopping me.

"Get out of my way," my mouth moves of its own accord. My voice sounds cold.

I feel myself being released. And all of a sudden, something cold splashes all over me, jolting me out of my trance.

I gasp, my vision suddenly bright. Edward is standing in front of me, a tense look on his face as he holds an empty bucket. My whole dress is wet.

"What…?" I breathe. Until I see what is on the wall.

It is me. And I am dead.


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer:_ _The characters of this story are owned and copyrighted by Stephenie Meyer. This work is written purely for entertainment purposes and it will by no means be used to gain monetary profit._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Previously…<strong>_

"_What…?" I breathe. Until I see what is on the wall._

_It is me. And I am dead._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter<strong>**4**

_**Bella**_

The image is drawn in blood, every detail painstakingly smudged to resemble reality.

It is so real that for a moment all I can do is stare. Stare at my closed eyes, broken arms and mangled neck etched on the wall in crimson.

My mind slowly comes back to life. What is that? _Who_ drew that?

The latter question is answered when I look down – my hands are covered in blood.

Before I can scream, Edward pulls me into his arms quickly, so that I'm facing away from the bloodied wall. The bucket clatters down behind him, rolling away until it hits the opposite wall.

"We'll clean that up, okay?" he says calmly. But I'm shaking so badly that, for a long time, I cannot answer him.

When I finally find my tongue, only one thing is on my mind. "I'm going to die, aren't I?" I whisper, still trembling.

He pulls back slightly, so that he is gazing straight into my eyes. His coal-coloured eyes look suddenly older. "I won't lie to you, Bella," he says quietly, "I don't know what lies in the future. But what I do know is that a short life well lived is better than an immortal existence filled with nothingness."

"Do you really believe that?" I ask, my eyes filling with tears. I am so afraid… so afraid.

"Yes, I do." His voice rings with such conviction that my fear fades a little to make way for admiration.

And then, more briskly, he says, "Let's get you cleaned up before you catch a cold."

I am glad for his grounded sensibility. I wouldn't be able to hold myself together otherwise.

_**Edward**_

I'm in no daze as I guide her to the bathroom. My mind is sharp – clear, clearer than it had been in a long time since my blood abstinence.

You see, Bella missed one important detail when she looked at that picture. A detail _I_ would never miss.

"I can't go in there alone, Edward," her numb voice rings out.

I nod curtly before I grab my mother's old nightdress from the wardrobe and march into the bathroom with her.

"Do you want me to turn away?" I ask tersely. She shakes her head. Her is eyes are wet with tears, which start spilling out as she crumples down onto the floor, hands covering her face.

"I-I can't do this, Edward," she moans, between sobs, "I'm n-n-not brave like you. I don't want to die! I'm not ready!"

I stand stiffly in the bathroom, wanting to comfort her, but more than anything, wanting us to switch places.

I'd been waiting decades to die. Endured the agonizing thirst. And yet here I am, as alive as an undead can ever be. Because I'll never approach the Volturi for help – not even for my own death. Not after what they did.

Sitting here in contrast to me, is Bella. So young, so full of promise. Talented, even – if you could see her blood sketch as that. I know for a fact that Aro would pounce gleefully on her. And yet, she is going to die. If she's lucky.

Because she never did see the most important thing on that wall; a tiny, crescent-shaped mark amidst the other wounds on her throat.

Now, I'd spent far too long wishing for death to be afraid of it. But I am afraid of one thing: the thought of this lonely existence, stretching on and on, with only my own thoughts, old memories and thirst to torture me throughout eternity.

My lips press together grimly, and I snap myself out of my depressing thoughts.

Not the right time for this now.

She needs me.

I kneel down in front of her, taking her hands. More of her blood smears over me. The smell is everywhere, and my throat burns even more terribly. _Prey_, my monster screams. Except that I've ignored him long enough that he fades into the background – safely locked away.

"Come on, Bella. Please," I plead, "We don't know if that picture is real."

"How can it not?" she whispers, her voice trembling, "I drew it, didn't I? I drew myself dead…"

As I look at her tear-streaked, terrified face, I'm suddenly angry. How can she give in to weakness like that? How can she just sit and cry when there is so much _more_ she could do?

"Look," I pat her arm to get her attention, "_Say_ the picture will come true. You can be strong, or you can keep crying. In the first scenario, you _live_. You actually _live_ before you die. In the second scenario… well, it wouldn't have made much difference if you died since you found out," I say harshly.

Bella stops crying. She looks at me, with something like wonder in her eyes, and then she stays silent for a while.

I watch her, her wet lashes, flushed face and sweaty skin – and I couldn't help but feel a pang of envy. She is alive. How can she _not_ appreciate that? Freedom from the burning thirst to kill, the relief of breathing, the joy of change…

But then again, I remember myself at her age. Twentyish, young and so foolish. I never did appreciate my life back then. I wasn't – and had never been – even as kind as she is. I recall her pillow fiasco with a weak smile. I never had the chance to be kind, because when I realized how important it was, all of it was taken away from me.

My anger fades away, replaced by understanding, and I feel bad for saying such cruel words. I pull the young, fragile girl into my arms, wishing I could take her burden instead.

But she hugs me back fiercely, and when she speaks, her voice is strong.

"You're right. Thank you for that."

As I hold her tightly, I know that I have _two_ fears now.

I smile wryly to myself. As usual, a little whim had transformed itself into a big problem.


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer:_ _The characters of this story are owned and copyrighted by Stephenie Meyer. This work is written purely for entertainment purposes and it will by no means be used to gain monetary profit._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Previously…<strong>_

_As I hold her tightly, I know that I have two fears now._

_I smile wryly to myself. As usual, a little whim had transformed itself into a big problem._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5<strong>

_**Bella**_

"Give it to me, Edward," I say calmly, advancing on him.

"Look at your hands," he says quietly, but his voice has an edge to it as he holds the cloth behind his back. I would laugh at the childishness of it I weren't trying so hard not to be annoyed.

"No broken bones. _Give_." I try to snatch it, but he sidesteps so quickly that I walk right into him.

His arms curl around my waist before I can fall.

"They're still injured, Bella. The wounds aren't shallow." His exasperated voice is at my ear, his heady scent putting my mind into a momentary fog.

I shake myself out of it.

"Edward. I _have_ to do it. I need the closure," I insist, looking up into his reluctant eyes. Feeling bold, I settle my bandaged hands firmly on his shoulders, willing him to let me.

An expression of surprise flits across his face before it is quickly replaced by irritation. He pulls away from me abruptly.

"With those fingers, you'll be smearing more blood _on_ than you're cleaning _off_," he scoffs sarcastically.

With my empty hands still stinging from the rejection, his words only add fuel to the fire. I stare daggers at him, my mouth about to form words that would inevitably start a shouting match.

But before I could explode with the wrath worthy of a woman scorned, something forces me to grudgingly stop and think.

Edward is no smooth-talker. He's guarded, wary, with a sense of righteousness that surfaces with brutal honesty. It was clear enough from last night. But I'd also realized something else – beneath all that slap-worthy candor he bears no true malice. He's kind.

For goodness's sake, he wants to clean the wall _for_ me.

My anger deflates rapidly, but he has already started apologizing.

"Bella, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that." His voice is tense but soft, his hand rumpling his hair back in frustration, "It's just-I just-…"

He struggles with his words and I feel bad. He's only trying to help, and here I am, making him apologize for it. I'm a terrible person.

"I know." I put my arms around him, conceding. "You're right. I can't clean anything with these damn hands."

He's silent for a while, his hands coming to rest lightly on my hips. I can feel the rise and fall of his chest against me. The strength in his body.

When he finally pulls back to look at me, there is something new in his eyes – a mixture of tenderness and resignation.

"Tell you what," he says. "I'll give you a brush. You scrub the blood, I wipe it off. You're happy, your fingers are happy, I'm happy. Deal?"

I smile.

* * *

><p>The sight still shocks me, but not as badly as it did last night. The blood is no longer scarlet, but brown, faded. The sunlight filtering through the room makes it even less intimidating.<p>

I'd spent the night washing myself again and again. I'd scrubbed the bathroom tiles until they shown. Still, the metallic smell of blood never seemed to go away.

Edward burned my dress. He didn't mention it and I never asked, but I feel extremely grateful to him. I never want to see it again.

Last night's events continue to buzz around my sleep-deprived mind as I scrub the blood away from the wall like a zombie. Everything seems surreal.

"You feeling all right?" Edward asks concernedly. He's been extra nice to me all morning, and I suspect it's because he still feels guilty about snapping at me earlier.

"The smell is making me sick. But yeah, I'm not feeling too bad."

"It's affecting me too. I'm trying my best not to breathe," he says, wrinkling his nose in an uncharacteristically dramatic manner.

I laugh at his theatrics. "You're so silly." And cute. I'm too shy to say it though.

"Am I, now?"

"Definitely."

"You rhymed," he points out, as though it were something impressive.

"Very funny, Edward."

We work in comfortable silence for the next half hour until only a pale yellow stain remains. Edward worked very fast despite my job being easier. He kept pace with me throughout, squeezing blood out of the wet cloth into the pail, and wiping away efficiently as I scrubbed.

At the end of it all, we stand back, examining our work.

"I can still see it," I admit.

"I'll get some paint soon," he promises.

"I hope the paint can cover the smell too," I say, for the umpteenth swallowing down the bile that threatened to spill out of my mouth.

He glances at me. "You don't look good."

"It's the smell."

"I hate it as well." A dark look flickers across his face.

"We rhymed," I say lamely, trying to lighten the mood.

He manages a weak smile. "You should rest."

"You too." Then I hesitate. "Honestly, I'm afraid to. I don't want to wake up covered in blood again." I look at my hands, each finger so carefully cleaned and wrapped by Edward yesterday while I'd sat there wincing like an overcharged toy.

"How often does it happen?" he asks curiously.

"I don't remember. My mind is still pretty jumbled up." And it is. Save for the short instance in the bedroom, I haven't had the opportunity to organize my remaining scraps of memories.

Thinking back to last night, I suddenly remember my peculiar bout of agitation. "I did feel very restless yesterday though. Tight. Hot."

Edward looks at me, amusement sparkling in his eyes.

I stare at him uncomprehendingly.

"Well. Do you feel like that now?" a smirk plays along his lips. Realization hits me and I feel the heat rising in my face.

I clear my throat awkwardly. "Uh. I dunno," I mumble embarrassedly, well aware that I was answering two questions.

A full-blow grin was on his face pronto, and his eyes glints mischievously. Not a good sign.

"Okay, okay, stop," I interrupt hastily, as he opens his mouth to speak.

He raises his hands in surrender. "I was only going to offer some ideas."

"In relation to?" I shot, skeptical.

"The drawings, of course," he says innocently.

"Humph. Go on."

I expect him to tease, but his expression turns serious.

"Okay, so my idea is simple. You just sleep, and if you start drawing, I'll wake you up. With this." He gestures at the bucket, long forgotten behind us.

I feel doubtful, but I couldn't think of anything better. "Okay."

_**Edward**_

I was naïve to think that such a simple method would work.

Because clearly, it is _not_.

Her eyes are glassy, bandaged fingers just shy of her mouth – before she bites them – and it takes the entire bucket to wake her up this time.

She splutters and jerks awake.

As I watch her dripping form for the fourth time today, I open my mouth to speak. She beats me to it.

"This isn't going to work," she says, as she throws the wet dress off her shoulders. "At one point, I'm going to be so tired that even the water won't wake me." She lethargically dons yet another dress, struggling with the buttons.

"I was thinking of exactly the same thing," I confess, crossing over to help her.

She looks miserably at the floor as I do the buttons, her eyes bloodshot. Water trickles from her hair and she is silent for a few minutes.

I can see her furiously racking her mind for a solution, but eventually she shakes her head in frustration. "I don't know what to do. It's like no matter what, I either put up with not sleeping, or with losing blood."

I consider the way she put it. _Losing blood_, she'd said, not _drawing_.

Yes, come to think of it, the drawing itself presented little threat compared to the other two. The threat in the drawing is more subtle… psychological. But not immediately life-threatening.

I'd been trying to solve the wrong problem.

I turn the two newly defined problems around my head, and suddenly the solution seems obvious.

"It's impossible for you not to sleep. But I think it's possible for you not to lose any blood," I say, my voice low with excitement.

She frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Why do you think you're using your blood to draw?"

"Because… _oh!_" her eyes lit up.

"_Exactly_," I said, thrilled, "You don't have anything else to draw with. I'll give you a pen."

"And paper," she said, "Stick it on the wall. You're _brilliant_!" She looks impressed, and I couldn't help feeling a little pleased.

"So… yes. The bucket's ready," I grin.

* * *

><p>Any optimistic feelings I had earlier have disappeared; fresh worry taking its place. I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose before rummaging through my first-aid kit.<p>

In the past few decades I had been alone, I'd kept wishing for something to happen. Something to take my mind off the thirst, off myself and my brooding thoughts.

It is as if I have finally gotten my wish. I wonder what kind of imp is laughing at me now.

Bella is still in the room, working, her mindless eyes fixated on every movement of the pen.

I imagine that her gift, while leaving her oblivious, probably horrified those around her. It would have horrified _me_, if I hadn't known Alice.

When I stride back into the room, the massive sketch is done. Bella is in bed, asleep, none the wiser. The picture itself doesn't surprise me. I'd seen the outline. I knew what to expect. What does surprise me is its impeccability – every line flawless, every mark serving a purpose.

As I drink in its realism and push past the misery and anger it awakens, a new understanding dawns on me. I realize why her wrists were so tightly bound on the day I found her.

_This_ is the reason the villagers abandoned her. Not for some petty crime – but for drawing what is unmistakably the future. If I had any doubts of her credibility before, they are gone. Because after observing and confirming each striking detail, I can confidently say that staring at me from across the room are four, _perfect_ replicas of faces I know.

My lips twisted, and I look away. My gaze falls to the sleeping girl. To her face – drawn and pale from exhaustion and blood loss. She'd covered the enormous length of paper till her wounds tore open, her fingers bleeding through its dressings.

I hadn't stopped her, because I knew she wouldn't rest peacefully until the drawing was done. I stroke back her soft brown hair, feeling something like pity for her. Pity? Not quite the right word… but I don't want to think about _me_ now. Not the picture, not my feelings. I'd spent far too many years immersed in them already.

I take her delicate fingers in my own, gently unwinding the sticky, damp roll of bandage. The smell wafts through the room, thick and delicious.

I stare.

The blood is still so red – glistening and fresh.

_Just a taste, _my monster whispers, and I raise it obediently to my lips. _Just one small taste…_ The bloody bandage is just millimeters away from my tongue.

Bella's fingers twitch.

It is not much – just a small movement in my periphery – but it's enough to jolt me out of my trance.

Stomach lurching, I hurl the bandage away from me. My hands are shaking. Even now, a part of my mind is screaming in anticipation. _So close, so close!_ I register the whisper of the bandage as it hits the wall and bounces back, rolling and stopping near my left foot.

Tantalizing me.

But not half as much as the fresh wound…rich red liquid seeping out of the succulent sk-

_STOP!_

I cut off my breathing and recoil, vampire speed, to the corner of the room. Shocked. I hadn't felt such an overwhelming urge in sixty-seven years. Am I finally losing my mind? Giving in to the thirst?

I couldn't. I _wouldn't_.

Steeling myself, I take a tentative a breath. The dull burning intensifies steeply, and I let it, carefully letting the air in and out until I feel desensitized enough. I feel calmer, more controlled.

Then I cross the room resolutely. Hold her fingers again, more warily this time, and focus my mind on healing.

Healing. Healing. Healing. I recite to myself, refusing to think of my thirst as I examine the wound.

It doesn't look too infected, so I skip the alcohol. The pain would wake her from some much-needed sleep. Pain. _I'm_ in pain. A particularly sharp burn shoots through my being, stunning me for a moment.

I release a tense breath and inhale. The scent is terrible. With this proximity, every gulp of air makes it worse. Choking, stabbing… My parched throat hurts so much that even my head begin to pound.

When the edges of my vision redden, I know something is off. Even as a newborn I had never experienced such intensity.

_**Bella**_

I couldn't move. Like before, I didn't have control over any muscle in my body.

Unlike before, I could see and I could hear.

Maybe it was the expectation. Maybe it was the pen. Whatever it was, I watched my hands draw. I watched them bleed, delivering small little agonies with every stroke.

I saw Edward in my periphery, silent and stony. And then I saw him move.

He _vanished_.

It was just as well that I couldn't control my movements, because I would've run, screaming in horror.

Who is he? _What_ is he?

Now I lie on the bed, wondering, with my body still trapped within the grips of that terrifying power. I couldn't move – couldn't control my own breathing. My heart should be thumping madly, but it isn't. I'm a mere ghost, a captive in my own body as I feel his icy hands on mine.

I want so badly to flinch away. I don't know what to expect, but it doesn't stop my imagination from running wild. Dread fills me as a thousand horrible possibilities play in my head. My fingers, mauled. Skewered. Flesh torn off. Bones and nerves gruesomely protruding.

But when his hands move, his touch is light, harmless. I realize that he is only tending to my wounds again.

My panic subsides, and I regain some measure of reason.

I remember his intense eyes as he knocked sense into me last night. Him angrily insisting that I shouldn't clean the wall. The feel of his unusually cold arms. He's not human, that's for sure. But he isn't evil. He couldn't be.

A confusing mix of emotions surges through me. Guilt, for doubting him when all he has been is kind. Suspicion – for how could I trust him? But most of all, curiosity. Morbid curiosity to know – again, what is he? Why am I here? Why is he doing all this?

What exactly _is_ he doing now?

I feel him unwrap my bandages. Hear him drop the new roll, feel his hands tremble. His labored breathing.

What is happening?

My breath catch. I move my hands, and feel the injured flesh on my fingers sting from contact with open air. I am in control of my body again.

I open my eyes.

"Edward?


	6. Chapter 6

_Disclaimer:_ _The characters of this story are owned and copyrighted by Stephenie Meyer. This work is written purely for entertainment purposes and it will by no means be used to gain monetary profit._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Previously…<strong>_

_I feel him unwrap my bandages. Hear him drop the new roll, feel his hands tremble. His labored breathing._

_What is happening?_

_My breath catch. I move my hands, and feel the injured flesh on my fingers sting from contact with open air. I am in control of my body again._

_I open my eyes._

_"Edward?_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6<strong>

_**Bella**_

He doesn't respond, breathing hard.

"Edward?" I try again, touching his arm lightly.

His head whips up from its bowed position, eyes pinning me to the spot. My whole body locks down as we stare at each other – a snake eyeing a rabbit. Predator and prey.

"Are you okay?" my voice cracks.

Something settles into his eyes – recognition – and he backs away from me so quickly that he knocks over the lamp. It slides off the table, smashing onto the floor. Shards of ceramic scatters all over the floor, tinkling as they crumble to dust.

We stare at each other for a moment, and I couldn't help but notice how terribly pale he is.

"I think you might need some sleep," I say cautiously, "You look ill."

"Perhaps," he mumbles, looking distressed.

"Take the bed. I… I'm going off."

He nods mutely, and I get off the bed, careful not to touch anything with my fingers.

"I'm so sorry."

The words are so quiet that I am afraid I imagined them. I don't respond, opting instead to leave the room without looking back.

_**Edward**_

It was so _close_. I nearly killed her…

I bury my face in my hands, briefly wondering how long my sanity could endure the smell.

The sheets and pillows are saturated with it. I don't touch them.

Settling myself on the armchair opposite, I mull over my options. I couldn't stay with her in the house – it is too dangerous. I couldn't send her back to the village either.

What I _could_ do is to give her access to Carlisle's old bank accounts, and then send her away into town. If she is prudent, the money is more than enough to last her – and possibly any family she might have – at least a few lifetimes.

The maddening problem is her lack of caution and memory. She would be easily swindled in town, or worse. I shuddered as I think of the possibilities. In my current state, I don't have the energy or restraint to keep checking on her.

Infuriating.

I feel tempted to hurl something across the room.

If only Carlisle is still alive…

I raise my eyes to again drink in the sight of the life-sized drawing from across the room – the drawing Bella hadn't even looked at in her haste to leave.

Jane. Felix. I hadn't been too surprised to see those two in the black hoods. But then…

Alice. Jasper.

I often wondered where they'd gone, when the rest of us were fighting. My jaw clenches in anger.

Run away to save themselves, I could accept. But to join the _Volturi_?

At first I tried to make excuses for them. Maybe they were trying to save us by striking a failed bargain. Maybe the Volturi threatened them.

But it is now _decades_ after the incident – a little over half a century. Alice would've known I'm still alive. It's impossible that they had no opportunity to contact me in _sixty-seven _years. They could've left a note. A damned email, even. _Something_.

A sister, a brother? I should've known they didn't care.

Rosalie was the same. She was the cause of our destruction, after all. But I couldn't bring myself to blame her. She'd been driven mad by her loss of Emmett when she turned his daughter – Bree.

We should've looked for her, not "give her time to grieve" as Esme had said. Because reflection wasn't part of Rosalie's nature – getting even, in every sense of the words, was.

I still remember Bree's golden curls, large blue eyes and toothless smile. Vampire evil disguised as an irresistible, innocent five-year-old. We'd all been drawn to her charm – even me.

Until we saw the destruction she wrought – killing with the guiltlessness, greed and cruelty of a child who didn't know better. Because that's precisely what she was – a child mad with thirst, forever frozen in time.

In a way, the Volturi was right to do what they did. But the pain of losing my family…

Unable to bear my own thoughts, I leave the room, walking out into the darkened dining room. It is almost evening.

The house is still – without the sound of a heartbeat that I had grown accustomed to.

"Bella?" I call.

There is no answer.

_**Bella**_

I pick the small red fruit, adding it to the half-filled basket at my arm. What are they? Spotted, sweetish and juicy. I could've sworn that I'd eaten them before. I frown, willing myself to remember something.

_Strawberries_.

Yes, that was it. My mind lights up at the returning memory. Perhaps I'm not so hopeless after all – they would all come back with time, and I would no longer have to depend on Edward.

Edward… the cheeriness I had felt upon recalling the strawberries faded away. He confused me. On one hand, he seems to care, but on the other, he frightens me.

I couldn't even be sure of his humanity, and yet I am inexplicably drawn to him. I don't understand why I'm not more anxious. Perhaps my lack of memories and the fact that I had nothing to compare this experience to.

I contemplated this as I examined a strawberry, feeling a bit depressed.

"Bella!"

I jump, strawberries falling out the basket and rolling onto the floor. Edward jogs hurriedly towards me, relief on his face.

"You scared me," I admit.

"Sorry," he apologizes, kneeling down to pick the strawberries.

"It's all right." I bend to help him, "Are you feeling better?"

He takes the basket from my arm, tapping my nose with his finger. "_Much_ better. You scared me too – disappearing from the house like that."

"Oh, I didn't realize…" I feel embarrassed.

"No, it's okay. You can come here whenever you like, just don't go past the woods." He swoops down again, picking more of the red fruit from the ground.

"Why?" I stretch for one that rolled under the bush.

"Not safe. Too many wild animals – bears and all."

"Oh." I frowned, sitting up.

"Yeah." He takes the strawberry from my hand, plopping it into the basket beside him.

I watch him openly, and he meets my questioning gaze with some reluctance.

"So we're alone here, in the middle of the woods?"

"Mm-hmm."

"How come?"

"I own these woods. I don't like being crowded upon by people," he says, pulling his knees up to his chest as he speaks.

"So there is _nobody_ around here at all?"

He's silent for a while. "Do you want to meet more people? I could send you into town."

"Send? You're not coming?"

"I don't like people. But if you do, I'll-…"

"No, I want to stay with you," I interrupt.

His eyebrows shoot up. "Why?"

"I just- Oh Edward, I don't want to meet more people. I'm confused enough as it is, and with all my night time drawings… I may not know exactly what's normal but I'm pretty sure that _I'm_ not.

"I'm actually quite surprised you're tolerating it at all," I add softly. I drop my eyes to my hands, feeling a little self-conscious.

His pale hand reaches out, covering my bandaged fingers soothingly.

"I want you to be happy," he murmurs.

I look up shyly at him. "Thank you."

We sit in silence for a while, our fingers twining delicately in my lap.

"Did you see the drawing?" I ask, suddenly remembering.

"Yes, I did."

"_I_ didn't." I realize, surprised.

"I'm sorry about the incident in the room," he says ruefully.

"No, _don't_ be. If anything, I'm sorry about depriving you of sleep," I say firmly.

He looks like he would object, but seems to think better of it. After some struggle, he finally speaks.

"It won't happen again," he promises.

"I believe you." I capture his hand between mine. He looks so sad.

On impulse, I reach up and kiss him lightly on the cheek, smiling playfully. "Don't worry, be happy."

He seems adorably flabbergasted by my action.

As he recovers, he says humorously, "What did I do to deserve this little angel?"

"You have to tell me some day, because I don't remember," I say in a mock serious tone.

He smiles weakly. "It's getting dark. We should go back."

"All right."

He picks up the basket as we stand up.

"So, you like these?" he asks curiously.

"Yeah, they're very sweet. Try it." I hold one out in front of his lips. He eyes it warily before taking it in his mouth.

"I suppose we don't have the same preferences," I remarked, watching his impassive face as he chews quickly and swallows.

He smiles at me, a gentle smile that lights up his entire face. "It's not so bad."

"So you want some more?" I verify innocently.

He chuckles. "You can have them, Bella."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

_**Edward**_

I twist her long brown hair into dozens of tiny, perfect little braids – the way only a vampire could. I weave three braids into a thicker one, humming absent-mindedly to myself.

"I still can't believe I drew this," she remarks, running her forefinger lightly over the meticulous line-works of her own sketch.

"Mm-hmm." I remove one of the many pins between my lips and fasten it carefully in her hair.

She glances up at me from the mirror and suddenly giggles.

I give her a puzzled look as my fingers continue working on the last portion of braids.

"I'm just happy," she explains, unexpectedly leaning back into me. My fingers lose track of the various braids.

"Your hair," I exclaim, pins spraying onto the floor as I momentarily forget about them.

"Woops," she sits up, and thankfully the braids are mostly undamaged. It isn't as though I couldn't re-do them easily, but that I have to do them at a frustrating human speed.

I quickly finish the last of it, pinning it up, and look critically the rose-shaped bun at the back of her head – giving it one last check.

"Done?" she asks.

"Yes," I say, giving her a hand-mirror to let her see.

"It's so pretty," she says, turning her head to look at it properly before giving me a warm smile.

"_You're_ pretty," I correct.

"So are you," she says seriously.

As I look at her, slightly taken aback, she grins mischievously. "What?"

I shake my head before bending down to pick up the pins.

Bella reaches down under the table to help me, and in doing so gives me a clear view of her cleavage.

It isn't as though I haven't seen breasts before. I have – in many less-than-glamorous situations involving screaming victims and torn clothing, and on common street whores searching for money. Those were my self-proclaimed vigilante days… as well as the occasions nowadays when they sent me unclothed female victims.

But this time it is different. I know for sure it is – because I feel myself stirring.

Inexplicably, diabolically and in a way that frightens me, my body _wants_ her.

_I _want her, in the most primal sense of the word.

"Here!" she drops the pins into my palm, smiling light-heartedly. Oh, if only she knows... The little devil in my head smiles sinisterly.

"Thank you," I say, giving her a small smile. My vampiric senses pick up her slightly erratic heartbeat and the scent of her arousal. I don't actually need them. The adoration is obvious from her gaze.

No, no, no… I feel such conflicting emotions that I don't know how to deal with them. On one hand, it is flattering to know that she wants me too… on the other, this _thing_ between us is twisted.

I am determined to die. And as my death draws nearer, my hunger intensifies.

One little slip and the human girl dies.

It's like the sick little game where the cat plays with his food, only worse because she doesn't know it and my instincts want to _both_ ravish and devour her. She sees me as a protector – a lover even, with the lies I have fed her of our nonexistent marriage. I sicken myself.

She interlaces her fingers with mine, surprising me until I realize what this moment seems to her – an intimate one. It's not right, I want to whisper, but I only drop my eyes and gently untangle my fingers from hers.

"Lunch?"

"Okay."

_**Bella**_

I watch him rise, feeling a little rejected from the way he broke off contact so quickly.

And then feeling silly that I felt that way. He just spent an hour sitting behind me doing my hair. I am too demanding sometimes.

"Hey, Edward, let me help with lunch," I say eagerly, rising.

He looks so sad.

I try to cheer him up by hugging him, but he gives me a small squeeze before pulling away, leaving my arms feeling empty again.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I murmur, taking a quieter approach.

He stays silent for a moment as he contemplates his words, and I wait patiently.

"Bella, I think you may have to find someone new," he says carefully.

"Someone new?" I clarify, not daring to make assumptions.

"Someone to take my place. I can't… be with you that way. I'm very sick." His lips twist slightly, as though he finds something amusing.

"Are you joking?" I ask, feeling a little suspicious.

"No, Bella. I'm absolutely serious." And I can see it in his eyes.

I stay quiet for a moment.

"Nothing can make you better?"

"I don't want to be better. I just… I can't do this anymore," he sounds exhausted. At that moment, all his walls seem to crumble.

I want to hug him, but I think he will not like it.

"Please don't die?" I say timidly, "You still have so much time ahead of you. It's sad to throw it all away. Maybe you're going through a difficult period in your life, and everybody goes through that. But wanting to die… I mean, once you die, there's no turning back."

"I'm absolutely certain about this," his eyes burned into mine, and I'm frightened by the certainty in them.

"Maybe right _now_ you are. But later on, if your life takes a turn for the better, you might not be," I murmur.

His expression takes a turn, becoming contemplative.

I let him think for a while and then I couldn't resist any longer.

"Can I hug you?" I ask hopefully.

His eyes light up in surprise before his lips quirk up to a genuine smile. He holds his arms out.

I trip over my feet in my eagerness to reach him and he catches me, chuckling. It feels so good to hug him. I give him a squeeze and he laughs.

_**Edward**_

Her words knock a little bit of sense into me. Suddenly, the world does not seem so dark anymore. I'd forgotten the little beauty of having a confidante. It had been painfully long since the demise of my family.

I breathe in her scent – sprinkles of salt on a fresh wound –thinking of how fortunate I am to have met her.

"It's a bit ironic, isn't it? You're haunted by your past; I'm haunted by my potential future. I hope we both don't die," she says.

Me too, Bella. Me too.

Because I want to live for you.


	8. Chapter 8

_**Previously**_

_"It's a bit ironic, isn't it? You're haunted by your past; I'm haunted by my potential future. I hope we both don't die," she says._

_Me, too, Bella. Me, too._

_Because I want to live for you._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8<strong>

_**Edward**_

I crouch low behind the tree, waiting for the perfect moment to lunge on the deer. It is twitchy, eyes flicking ever so often to my direction.

_I would live for her._

As I near it quietly, the deer takes off, running for its life.

_And die when she does._

I streak through the forest, racing after it.

_I would live for her._

But its legs took it further and further away, and soon enough, it is out of sight. I frown in confusion. Again and again I try. And every time, I fail. I could not catch a single animal. Not a single drop of blood for the hours I have been out. The sun is already setting.

_Because I love her._

I drop to my elbows and knees, staring numbly at the little ants burrowing through the soil.

It begins to rain.

Little patters of water, falling onto my skin, breaking into a million pieces. I could see my reflection in each tiny drop before they fall, joining the liquid that runs into the earth, giving force to the living.

Not the undead.

Never the undead… We are created so powerful because there is no god for us. No help. No heaven, only eternal damnation. We reign supreme on this plane, because it is our only world. After that, there is nothing.

Nothing at all.

I'd watched, when they burned Carlisle.

The guards left me with no alternative as they pinned me down and turned my face, even as I thrashed and screamed in rage and grief.

Esme's destruction was the worst. It was anguish in its purest form, to watch her try and be brave for my sake. She'd looked at me then – she'd wanted to say something, but someone's hand curved round her mouth, snapping her jaw. I saw the agony in her eyes, and then I smelled only the familiar, sickly perfume.

The scent of my family was the same as any other we'd destroyed, despite our abstinence from blood. The pale purplish smog had risen, unfurling its wings and stretching out into the sky where it vanished...

My cheeks are wet, but the tears are not mine.

Just the rain.

Water soaks through my garments, rolling off my crystallized skin – so beautiful to some but oh, so ugly, so terribly ugly to me – and the devastating truth begin to sink in.

I am too weak to hunt.

_**Bella**_

Edward has not returned. I glance worriedly at the darkening sky. He has been gone since morning.

_It is warm under the blankets, and I feel cool hands brushing back my hair._

"_Edward?" I mumble drowsily._

"_I'm going out to get some paint for the wall," he kisses my forehead tenderly, "I'll be back."_

"_Mmm…" I brush his hand as he withdraws it, and roll over, instantly falling asleep again._

I hug myself, wondering where he would get the paint.

A few books lay scattered on the floor, their spines so ancient that I feared they would crumble.

I had found them in the cupboards – and to my pleasure, found that I could understand the words. English words. Literature.

_"These violent delights have violent ends And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, which as they kiss consume."_

The door creaks open.

His form drips with water and his jeans are covered with mud and leaves.

"Edward, you're home!" I say, relieved. I reach out to hold him but he sidesteps me.

"I'm dirty," he says, his lips forming a lifeless smile.

I size up his dull, empty expression and look at him speculatively.

"What happened?" I ask.

He notices my concern.

"Nothing," he smiles more genuinely, "I'm sorry love, I couldn't find the paint."

But then he brushes past me.

I stand there for a second, and then make up my mind.

"It doesn't matter," I say earnestly, following him upstairs, "The blood stains doesn't really bother me anyway. I don't even look at i-"

"Bella, love-… I need to be alo-… I need to shower," he looks a little strained, and I suddenly feel very small.

"Okay."

_**Edward**_

Oh Bella. Lovely, sweet Bella. She is going to suffer with me.

_Be careful what you wish for._

Carlisle's calm voice – what he'd told me so many decades ago.

Indeed, father, indeed. All those times I had wished for death. _All those years…_ I think with burning remorse.

What am I going to do now?

As though answering my unspoken my question, something gold gleams in the corner of my mother's old room.

I stride towards it. The shining plastic was unaffected, underneath the thin veneer of dust. It lay unmoving from the spot where I had hurled it, all those decades ago.

_Edward Cullen_, the elegant silver words gleams, as I blow the dust off.

I know what to do.

My resolve strengthens as I pick my old credit card up, but my hands shake slightly from the terrible act I have to first commit.

_**Bella**_

I pick at my dinner, unable to summon much appetite to eat. Edward…

The sound of water running upstairs reminds me the state he was in. Torn clothing, dirt, muck, leaves…

I think of what he says to me earlier.

_Bella, I think you may have to find someone new…_

_I don't want to be better. I just… I can't do this anymore…_

A frightening suspicion daunts on me – that he does not want to live.

The pale skin, the cold hands.

It is an illness, it must be. But why has he not sought help? Doctors?

Surely, they would have given him some medication, _something. _But he hardly stays in bed, hardly eats...

I hear the bathroom door creaking open. Hear him move the laundry basket. As his feet pads down the stairs, I know I would not have the courage to ask him if I don't do it now. And then it might be too late. I rearrange my expression, hoping that it hides my worry.

"Edward," I say calmly, rising.

"Yes?" He seems equally relaxed. In an eerie, practiced way.

A moment passes, and then I force myself to look him squarely in the eyes. "Are you trying to kill yourself?"

He looks startled, and then, he laughs – a humorless, sinister laugh.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Edward," I toss the cutlery aside determinedly, "You don't eat. And I doubt you sleep. You come home covered in… in… dirt, and you expect me to believe that you're helplessly dying." I fix him a steady look.

He doesn't look away or scoff as I expect him to. He holds my gaze, pinning me to the spot with the sheer intensity in his eyes as he walks towards me.

"Isabella." He utters my name quietly, his face mere inches from my own. His expression is cold and I flinch internally when he tilts my chin up forcefully.

He rams me against the wall roughly, his mouth on mine. I gasp, trying to push him away, but he is too strong. He pins my wrists and devours my mouth callously, his tongue demanding, invasive.

Lust. Anger. Hostility.

I turn my face to the side, taking big gulps of air, my lips stinging a little.

"Do you still want me now?" he asks, his breathing equally harsh, "I'm not gentle Bella. I never really was."

"I don't want you to die," I whisper.

"On the contrary," he sneers viciously, "I don't think you should be worried about _that_ right now."

His fingers scrabble for the zip of my dress, and that was when the strangeness of the situation hit me.

Edward has nimble fingers. When I think of him, I think _deft_, _precise_ – never _clumsy_, let alone _scrabble._

_This_ is an act.

My blood boils a little. He would go to this extent to push me away? Two can play at that.

"I'm yours," I say fiercely, my nails dug into his hand as I guide it to yank my zip down. I tug off the dress, ripping off my corset until I was bare to him. "Take me then," I challenged, allowing him to see the steely resolve in my eyes.

I wait for him to crumble, for him to admit that it is an act. But he only laughs coldly.

"You are _far_ too unbecoming for my tastes," he spits, eyes sliding lewdly over my form.

I flush. Cruelty. So that's how he would play it.

If I had not been so certain that he is lying, I would have been utterly crushed.

As it is, I slowly pick my dress off the floor, watching his retreating back as he goes up the stairs.

My lips set in a grim line.

He needs a doctor.

And I am going to get him one.

I pull on my coat resolutely and stepped out into the pouring rain.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Previously**_

* * *

><p><em>He needs a doctor.<em>

_And I am going to get him one._

_I pull on my coat resolutely and step out into the pouring rain._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 9<strong>

_**Bella**_

I know that it is here somewhere. I have seen a glimpse of it a few days ago near the strawberry trail. I'd forgotten Edward's warning about wild animals and ventured a little too deeply into the forest, but I'd turned back immediately.

My shoes squelch through the mud, and I shiver.

The braids Edward had so carefully tied for me are coming undone and loose strands of hair stick to my face, getting into my mouth.

I brush them aside my hand, realizing how heavy the sleeves of my coat have become from the wetness. My soaked coat is making me colder than warmer.

Where is it? I squint through the darkness, the rusty lamp in my hands pathetically dim.

As I brush aside some leaves, I feel the hair at the back of my neck prickle. Someone – or something – was watching me.

I freeze, my blood chilling.

I daren't move – daren't look behind, hoping that whatever it was would go away...

_Bella, Bella_, a faint, eerie voice whispers.

I scream, dropping the lamp.

I hit something hard as I run blindly into the darkness and fall, ripping the sleeve of my coat.

The dull pain in my shoulder snaps me out of my panic and I scramble to my feet, heart thumping wildly.

My lamp lies a few feet from me, still working.

For a moment, I contemplate going back. I could go tomorrow.

Then I recall his icy expression, his cruel words, and grit my teeth. No. He made his decision final tonight. Something in my gut tells me that tonight is crucial. Tomorrow would be too late.

A flash of lightning streaks across the sky, illuminating the forest for a few precious moments – and I see only harmless trees.

It makes me braver. I pick up the lamp with new resolve.

I am going to make sure Edward lives – until we become old and crippled together, and no amount of disembodied voices is going to stop me.

I smile at the image, warmth seeping in my heart despite the freezing rain.

With some effort, I plough on through the trees. Everything depends on my memory.

_Please, please let it be right…_

Then I see it: the familiar strawberries and the light trail through the trees. My heart leaps, and I quickly walk through it until the trees begin to clear.

Light poured warmly from some houses, and I almost cry with relief when I see a hunched old lady shuffling through the rain in her crooked umbrella.

"Excuse me," I call loudly through the roaring rain, "_Excuse me_!"

The woman turns around. "Yes, lady?"

"I'm looking for directions," I begin, nearing. She peers up into my face and her curious, helpful demeanor turns immediately into a look of terror.

She backs away from me, white as sheet, crossing herself.

I glance behind me to see if there is something I should be worried about – the body of the voice maybe – but there is nothing.

"What is it?" I ask her, starting to feel a wave of panic myself.

She claps a hand to her mouth, still walking backwards from me, stammering, "I haven't done anything to you… Your mother and I were very good friends…"

"Sorry?" I ask, perplexed.

But as I take a step towards her she turns and breaks into a full sprint, screaming in terror. Her foot slips on the wet road and she falls, sprawling against the hard floor, her neck bent at an awkward angle.

I stare at her body, frozen with shock.

_**Edward**_

_It had to be done._

_It was for the best_.

_Do __**not **__comfort her._

I slam my fists down onto the table in frustration. No matter how right it is, it will never feel right.

I retrieve my hands from the table. Where previously the wood would have crumbled with little effort on my part, it now barely dented – testimony to my deteriorating body.

I wonder what Bella is doing now.

I listen hard for her heartbeat, her breathing, her movement, but hear none.

Has my hearing waned so quickly?

I strain my ears, listening for a sound. I can barely make out the ticking of the second hand below, and the clicking of pallets and wheels within has become completely silent to me.

My world has dulled, as though my ears were submerged in water.

Still, it should not be so quiet…

Something icy claws at me from the inside and I am downstairs in an instant – far too quickly for my weakening body. My legs give out beneath me as I fling the door wide open.

As I slip clumsily into the wet grass, I smell traces of her, slowly vanishing in the rain. She is gone.

A ripple of horror washes over me.

Bella would _never_ do this to herself. She is probably in one of her trances…

But then I notice that the lamp is gone.

_Look what you made her do… despicable, contemptible creature that you are._

An image of her mangled, lifeless body enters my mind. Limbs eaten to the bone. Her mouth still contorted in the shape of a scream.

I force it out of my mind.

No.

She is _not_ going to die.

Like an animal, I drop on all fours, pressing my nose into the wet soil and grass to find her scent.

_**Bella**_

"Please, I didn't kill her!"

But nobody listens. Nobody speaks to me.

My hands are bound, and I am in a daze as the procession of people close in around me, ensuring that I could not run.

The rain falls heavily as ever.

I stand on a raised platform, and I feel my blood run cold when I see the rope above me.

I whimper, looking around for someone who would listen... anyone… "Please…"

I catch the eye of a woman, but her expression is murderous. Thirsty for blood. "A cursed child. That's what you are, from the moment you were born." She spits into my face.

I flinch, shocked by the action, but she is not done.

"You killed my daughter. I'll never forgive you for that. _Never_," she hisses, "I've been waiting eighteen years for this day. Mark my words, you will _suffer_ for what you did."

I want to ask her what she means, but all I manage is a bewildered expression before someone shoves me forward.

The crowd moves back, away from me and I realize then how alone I am as the eighty or so pair of eyes fix their unsympathetic gaze upon me.

A man lowers the rope, and by this time, I am shaking uncontrollably.

He grasps my bound hands, raising them above my head, and ties the rope to them so tightly that my hands begin to numb. Someone tugs the rope from the pulley, pulling my weight up by my arms until I was on tiptoes.

"Isabella Marie Swan," he began speaking.

"_NO_!" Heads turn at the interruption.

I don't recognize the voice. It is a tall, russet-skinned boy.

He looks barely twenty. He pushes his way through the crowd carelessly, a picture of desperation. Some shout profanities at him, and jostle against him roughly. It is clear that he is hated.

But he is utterly determined.

"No, Sam!" he snarls.

The man speaking looks at him, resigned, and continues, "This child is evil. When she was six years old, she was found sitting outside her parent's home – with her parents and young playmate slaughtered. Mere months ago, she drew portraits of three people dead – and they died. And today, a woman was found dead – and this girl was the only person in the vicinity." He recites these dully, as though he were weary of it all.

"You can't…" the boy pleads, "Please. _Please_. Take my life instead. I'll take it for her. Please!"

"Jacob," Sam exhales tiredly, "You know that's not possible," his voice drops into a whisper, "You know yourself how hard I fought for her life. Any other person in her shoes would've been killed years ago. But people keep dying, Jacob. So many families have been affected. I'm starting to believe the rumors."

"She is _not_ evil. I refuse to believe it!" Jacob shouts, trying to clamber up to get to me, but Sam raises a hand, and two larger men grip his arms, dragging him away.

"No, let me go! Bella! _BELLA_!" he screams terribly, his voice breaking as he fights them ferociously, and a third man hastily moves to help the other two subdue him.

They haul him away, out of my sight, leaving me more shaken than before.

The revelations spin around my head.

I have killed people. And now they will kill me.

And I couldn't stop it.

My mouth has gone dry. But it moves, mechanically. "Who is Jacob?"

Sam does not look at me. "Your betrothed." He turns away from me abruptly, "Begin the whipping."

My mind couldn't process his words. Whipping? Betrothed? _Edward_… I tug uselessly at the rope, my arms aching.

Someone chants a string of words that sound vaguely like a prayer and I can hear drums beating.

The whole experience feels surreal.

A masked man comes forth then, his hands reaching for the ribbons in my dress. I cringe away from his touch, violated, but he only tightens his grip, ripping the cloth apart.

I gasp, but he ignores me, stripping my garments even as I struggle, humiliated. "_Don't_!" I choke back a sob as I hear people jeering.

But my nakedness is soon forgotten as a loud whistling sound followed by a sharp crack sends a blazing, tearing _pain_ through my body.

I hear a blood-curdling scream and realize that it is my own. I barely take my next breath when the second blow strikes, the _pain_ bewildering me.

I writhe in the ropes, desperate to avoid the third blow as I hear the ominous whistle, but it is futile as the _pain_ explodes in my head again, bringing tears into my eyes. There is a ringing in my ears, and as the agony escalates sharply, I begin losing all rationality.

"I didn't kill her!" I cry hoarsely, blindly, wanting – _needing_ – the _pain_ to stop. Some people are shouting – but I cannot understand, cannot see.

The next few blows bites clean through my flesh, so savagely that stars bursts before my eyes. The scorching _pain_ drowns all other sensation.

"_Let me die! I want to die! Please! EDWARD!_"

I can no longer think straight; my mind is so consumed by the _pain_. My wounded back feels burned and I scream and scream words that make no sense to me.

_Pain, pain, pain._

Just when my world numbs away, I hear a terrifying snarl.

_**Edward**_

As I take in the sight of her – naked and helpless as they reduce her back to a bloody mess – a red haze clouds my vision.

I am so furious, so horrified that I am rendered temporarily useless. Stunned. Until the whip rises.

My hand is instantly on his wrist and I pull it back brutally, forcing his arm to bend in exactly the opposite direction. A satisfying crunch of nerves and bones meet my ears as his elbow splinters.

I would have done more if I hadn't seen how pale she is, how deathly still. I could end the scum in my hands, but killing him now would be much too merciful. I'd come back… later.

We are gone before he can scream.

_**Bella**_

"Bella," somebody murmurs, touching my arm. Memories of the pain come back and I raise my arms weakly, trying to defend myself.

"It's me. Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you," his voice is gentle. Fingers caress my forehead lightly and I began to relax. Who is this person?

As the fogginess clears slightly, I become aware of a painful tugging sensation at my back. In fact, my back sears with sudden, intense stinging and I cry out, hot tears spilling out of my eyes of their own accord. His cool hands immediately restrain my shoulders.

"You said you wouldn't hurt me," I whimper.

"I'm _healing_ you, Bella," he says calmly, "I know it hurts. I _know_." Emotion wells up in his voice. "A little more, love."

The pain is excruciating. I grip the sheets, my body covered in sweat, as I grit my teeth, trying to bear it.

"Bite on this," he instructs, putting a towel in front of my mouth, "It'll stop you from harming your teeth."

I let him insert the towel into my mouth and I bite down hard.

"That's it," he says encouragingly.

_**Edward**_

In the forest, I had been so full of rage and fear that some of my strength and speed had returned to me. But now, I can feel the exertion taking its toll.

My head feels heavy and my body shakes unnaturally – moving in a sluggish, clumsy way.

It is only by sheer force of will that I steady my hands to stitch up her wounds.

There is so much blood. My throat burns dully, but my madness seems to be safely at bay.

Bella seems only half-conscious, but conscious enough to feel the pain. She cringes against the suturing.

My heart bleeds at her suffering, and I am filled with hatred to the people who have done this to her.

It was a mistake to put off killing the man, because I realize that I haven't the strength to return. I clench my jaw in frustration as I continue stitching.

_**Bella**_

I gasp for breath occasionally, trying to reduce movement in hopes that the pain would lessen that way. He pauses every now and then to dab the sweat rolling off my body – something I'm thankful for because I wear nothing and my wet skin makes me shiver.

When he finishes, and bandages my back, my jaw is aching and the towel and the sheets are drenched in my bodily fluids.

It is disgusting, but he doesn't flinch away.

"We're done. You were so brave," he kisses my forehead. I feel hands sponging off excess blood from my skin.

Again, I wonder who he is.

As his face swims into view between the salt-prism edges of my vision, I suddenly recognize him.

"Edward," I breathe.

"Yes, sweetheart?" he carefully lifts me up, moving me to a new bed.

I couldn't help the tears from spilling all over again.

He pulls me as close as possible without touching my wounds.

"It's okay. I'm here. You're safe," he murmurs.

_**Edward**_

Her swollen eyes are filled with emotion and she put her arms around me, pressing her face against the crook of my shoulder.

It reminds me of the first time we met.

Careful not to press down on the bandages, I pull up the quilt around her body.

I try to put it between my cold skin and her own, but she clings to me, even though her fingers are freezing.

It is such an accurate metaphor for our situation that I sigh.

Bella…

I reach over to take the hot water bottles I'd brought up with us earlier, and press them against the coldest parts of her skin.

The warmth seems to ease a little of her tension and her breathing slows.

There are so many things I want to ask her; so many questions she must want to ask me, but that can wait until later.

For now, I just hold her gently as she drifts off to sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

**C****hapter 10**

_**Edward**_

She has been shifting restlessly for the past hour.

"You don't want berries?" she asks, so distinctly that I almost think she is awake.

I adjust my position against her, trying to make her more comfortable.

"I don't want your apples. Where's Angela?"

Her hands curl into fists against my chest.

"Come back," she mumbles, "Don't follow the strawberries."

Her eyes open suddenly, but they are blank.

I start, fearing that she was in one of her trances again, but then her eyes shift, finding mine.

"Thirsty…" she murmurs.

I nearly knock the jug off the table trying to get the water fast enough. Helping her up into a sitting position, I put the glass into her hands, but it slips through her weak fingers, shattering on the floor.

"I'm sorry." She looks like she wants to say more, but I hold up a hand.

"Don't. Not now. You need to rest."

"But-…" she began.

I put a finger against her lips. "Shh. I promise we'll talk about this first thing in the morning."

I hold up the glass for her this time, guiding it up to her lips. She drinks the water, and then settles against me.

We lie like that for a while, but I can sense that she is not sleeping. I stay silent, hoping that she would fall asleep soon, but then she speaks.

"I was a murderer."

"A murderer?" I couldn't hide the skepticism in my voice.

"That's what they said."

"They're lying," I say with certainty. The idea in itself was preposterous.

"There were so many of them. They _knew_ me."

How could I explain?

The villagers are an uneducated, superstitious bunch who hides themselves away from the rest of society. They are one of the few, isolated tribes who still believes in mythical creatures, rituals and sacrifices.

Bella knows nothing of this. She knows nothing of the outside world, let alone understand the irrational mentality of these barbarians.

"Trust me, Bella. I know you better." I squeeze her hand.

She does not reply me, and I sense her silent dissent. Bella is not one for confrontation.

Which makes me hate myself even more for what I did to her when she gathered the courage to confront me. Because she _cares_. Worse, my plan to send her to the city is rendered futile by her injuries.

How can I send her away, when she can barely stand?

But how can she stay, when I am so near to madness?

Without thinking, I press a kiss against her temple and she shifts in my arms, looking up at me.

Moonlight lights up her pale, weary face. Still beautiful. Her eyes, red from crying. Still beautiful.

I feel a sense of completion as I hold her, tenderness for her in the short time we have been together.

"I love you."

It is not me who utter the words.

I watch her, my face carefully blank.

"I love you," she repeats softly, reaching to touch my face. My cold, evil skin.

She does not look at me with expectation, but with resignation. She uttered the words believing I do not reciprocate.

It shatters what is left of my dead heart that I cannot reply. Admitting my love would give her hope; hope that will only make this hurt more when everything comes crashing down.

So I caress her cheek, not saying anything, aching inside.

A tear trails down her face.

_**Bella**_

I do not expect him to respond, but I realize that I had begun hoping. And I have no idea that it is going to hurt so much.

I want to turn away; to move away even as I craved for his touch, but suddenly the fingers on my cheek lifts my face. Before I know it, his lips are on mine, kissing me with such tenderness that my body becomes limp against his; softening and molding itself against his firm contours.

Is he kissing me because he pities me?

I realize that I don't care.

With a gasp, I deepen the kiss, struggling to get more of him. He does not fight me, or push me away even as I use my tongue to explore his mouth almost wantonly.

In fact, he has stopped responding at all.

I draw back, humiliated, wondering if I have crossed a line. He only watches me with those eyes, eyes so dark that I cannot see his pupils.

With a jolt, I realize that he wants me.

He does not say it, does not want to show it, but he wants me.

It is in his eyes, his manner, his _kiss._

Freshly mortified by my own aggressive response, I'd almost forgotten that it was he who started the kiss. Not me.

One does not kiss simply _anybody_ the way he kissed me.

And then a memory of pain returns to me.

_A little more, love_, he'd said, as I drifted in and out of consciousness.

I blink.

He… he _loves_ me…

Then why?

There is something here that I don't know, or don't understand…

But before I can think, his fingers curve around my face, and he presses a kiss to my jaw. His lips move down, soft as butterflies on my neck and I curl around his touch, losing myself in its pleasurable sensation.

"Edward," I murmur.

"Yes," he breathes.

"I love you." I tell him again.

* * *

><p>Sunlight streams through the windows.<p>

I awake, my body still aching. Edward had lulled me to sleep last night by his kisses, his soft touches. But where is he?

"Edward," I call out, a little panicked.

"I'm here," his cool hand covers mine, and I smell breakfast.

As I shift carefully, my body feels sticky and I can still smell blood on myself.

"I'm filthy," I say abjectly. I feel wretched, a headache creeping in and my back still stinging almost intolerably. I understand now why he was so determined for me to rest.

"I can help clean you up. We need to change your bandages anyway." He says it casually, with seemingly no regard at how intimate this could get now that I am conscious.

The thought makes blood flood my cheeks, and he chooses that moment to look up from tinkering with the breakfast tray.

His lips twitch.

"_Don't_," I say warningly, before he could try to speak, and he chuckles.

There is some light in his eyes today, and I smile.

_**Edward**_

_I love you_.

I couldn't get her words out of my mind. I know that a part of me had given in when I'd relented to temptation and kissed her.

_Just to soothe her for the night. To help her sleep and recover,_ I'd said to myself. But deep down, I'd known it was more than that.

Each time she uttered the words, she'd broken through my walls of resistance. I'd never expected her to feel anything beyond companionship for me. Lust, yes. Affection, maybe. But certainly not love.

She'd shocked me last night, but I'd been far too grief-stricken, too guilty, to let the words truly sink in.

Now that they have, my heart feels light. Something inside me is soaring, giddy.

"Have some pancakes." I make as if to pass the tray to her, and then, remembering the broken glass from last night, think better of it.

"Ah," I say, holding out a spoonful of syrupy pancake.

She looks startled, and then giggles.

"Ow," she stops laughing as the tremors hurt her wounds, and opens her mouth obediently.

"Good girl," I tease brightly and she giggles again, gingerly this time.

She eats a few more mouthfuls like that, and then, after she swallows, she speaks. "You know, Edward, maybe something's wrong with my head, but you've been… _sparkling_."

She looks bemused, and I suddenly become aware of the sunlight flooding through the open curtains. My insides tighten. Carelessness!

"I kept waiting for the hallucination to go away," she comments, "But you're _still_ sparkling."

My stomach clenches nervously, but I give her a weak smile. "Yeah, maybe it'll go away soon."

"You look beautiful. Like an angel," she muses.

Angel of blood sucking, maybe.

I shake my head. "You are far more beautiful than I will ever be."

I let my eyes rest on her soft, human skin with its perfect imperfections. Her hands, gentle, and free from blood and murder. Her body, transient, like dew drops, her soul free to soar into the heavens when the body expires.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Beauty is more than what you now believe. When you grow older, you'll understand what I mean," I tell her unthinkingly.

"You look younger than I am," she tells me, her eyes having that shrewd expression that I'm beginning to realize as uncanny intuition.

"How old are you?" I deflect the question temporarily.

"I don't know," she admits, a wry smile spreading across her face. "No memories, remember?"

I regret the question. "I'm sorry. It was thoughtless-"

"No, no," she brushes my apology away. "But look in the mirror. You look like a youthful seventeen-year-old. I'm probably older."

The jarring accuracy of her guess disconcerts me for a moment. Then I shrug. "Appearances are deceiving."

"You're right about that."

Somehow, the way she says it puts me on edge.

Memories of my rescue flits through my mind, and wildly, I wonder if she has guessed what I am. Wonder if she is hinting that her "angel" is not what he seems…

But her eyes are guileless, soft, and my worries are placated.

"Time to change your bandages. Put your arms round my waist," I tell her. She lifts her arms slightly and winces as the movement shifts the muscles and skin on her back.

I lift her gently, my fingers intertwined to form a makeshift seat for her, effectively avoiding her injured back.

She leans into me and an almost inaudible sigh left her. A strong protective instinct surges through me and I cradle her against my body.

"All right?" I ask.

"Yeah, I'm okay," she replies, slightly breathless.

_**Bella**_

"_Holy mother!_" I groan, gritting my teeth as Edward gently peels the bandages off my back.

If I'd thought the experience was going to be sensual or intimate, I couldn't be more wrong.

The pain is ungodly. Throbbing, searing, and every movement feel like salt over the torn flesh.

I grip the edge of the bathtub as I sit on a woolly towel, leaking blood all over it. My eyes waters from the pain and I am sweating with the effort of not screaming out.

Edward's encouraging words are almost drowned by my gasps.

A particularly sharp pain sears through my body and I bite down on my lip, drawing blood.

"_Shit_," I hiss, stiffening, my hands clutching the bathtub so tightly that my knuckles turn white. My back is on fire.

Edward pauses and then dabs at my bloody lip, and brushes away tears that have leaked down my face.

"Bite this," he murmurs, giving me a fresh towel.

I'd refused it earlier, but now I take it in my mouth without argument.

The agony continues, and just when I think I can take no more, a warm sponge brushes over my forehead.

"We're done with the first part," Edward says, a cool hand on my arm. He begins to clean up, sponging off dirt and blood from my skin, avoiding my back altogether.

He moves to sit beside me, and helps me turn around so that I am facing him.

His hands move clinically to cleanse my breasts, my stomach, nothing more than concern and focus in his eyes, and I realize that I do not feel self-conscious. There is something inherently trustworthy about him, and a deep caring in his eyes that makes me feel as though my own affection for him pales in comparison.

Still, his touch sends little tingles dancing across my skin, and despite everything, my body cannot help but react to his gentle care. Goosebumps rise and I feel my nipples tighten in the warm bathroom.

He notices, and I see his eyes dart up to meet mine with mild surprise.

My cheeks colour.

But then his free hand curves behind my neck and he presses a brief, tender kiss on my lips, draining away my embarrassment.

He draws away slowly, his eyes blazing, and then he is rewrapping my wounds, his movements sure and practiced.

"Are you a doctor?" I ask curiously. It could explain his earlier reluctance to see one.

"No."

"A nurse?"

"No." He cut the roll, taping it down. A pause. Then, "My father was a surgeon."

"Was? He's retired?" I look at Edward's young face, wondering how old his father could be.

"No. He was murdered."

It is the first personal thing he confided in me, and I had not even been pushing. I turn around at that, to look at him. My back protests and I wince slightly.

Edward looks empty. Still grieving.

Before I can speak, he continues, "My mother too. And my siblings. Two of them escaped but I don't know where they are. They never contacted me." And then, "You don't have to say anything."

I open my mouth, but it is as though he is on a roll. "I've been keeping things from you. Because I don't want you to end up like them. There are things in this world people would never believe in, but they exist."

He draws a breath, looking torn, and then says, "I lo-I care for you. But this will never work. I think you probably know that we're not really married."

Silence.

That one I'd never really thought about. Being married. He'd always been there, and I'd liked his company. I still do like it. Am addicted to it, even.

Then another memory flashes through my mind, of a screaming young man -_ your fiancé_, the man named Sam had said - and I nearly hurl.

Jacob.


	11. Chapter 11

_**Previously**_

_"I've been keeping things from you. Because I don't want you to end up like them. There are things in this world people would never believe in, but they exist."_

_He draws a breath, looking torn, and then says, "I lo-I care for you. But this will never work. I think you probably know that we're not really married."_

_Silence._

_That one I'd never really thought about. Being married. He'd always been there, and I'd liked his company. I still do like it. Am addicted to it, even._

_Then another memory flashes through my mind, of a screaming young man -__ your fiancé__, the man named Sam had said - and I nearly hurl._

_Jacob._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 11<strong>

_**Bella**_

"Jacob," I begin, wanting to tell Edward, but the name is like a curse the moment it leaves my mouth.

There is a loud crash downstairs, a splintering of wood, and my heart leaps in horror.

Have they come to find me?

Edward seems to be thinking along the same line because he wraps a robe around me, and raises a finger to his lips as the thudding footsteps reach upstairs.

"_BELLA_!" someone shouts, panicked, "_Bella_! I know you're in here!"

Jacob!

Before I can say a word, Edward is on his feet, blocking the doorway as the bruised young boy comes into view, shell-shocked as he stares into Edward's face.

His eyes move past him to rest on me, and I know what he sees. Me on the floor and blood.

He gives a cry of rage.

"_NO!"_ I shout, but it is too late. Jacob's fist connects with Edward's jaw and he staggers backward, but makes no effort to defend himself as Jacob raises his arm again, hatred in his eyes.

"_STOP IT!"_ I am on my feet in an instant, planting myself firmly between the two of them, trembling from the pain.

"We're all on the same side. This is a misunderstanding," I say weakly.

My knees give way, and Edward's arms come around my waist.

"You've torn some of your stitches," he murmurs.

Jacob's eyes flicker back and forth between us, something flaring up in them. He takes in the bandages now, and takes a few steps backwards, looking stunned but still on edge.

"Get the bandages in the bathroom," Edward tells him, and he flinches as though he got slapped.

Edward surveys him, taking in his cuts and bruises, one eye swelling, and says, "You need them too."

It seems to snap Jacob out of his shock as he scurries into the bathroom, fetching the materials.

"Help me hold her." My body aches for his touch as Jacob's arms come around me instead. But Jacob's body is comfortingly warm as he holds me just as gently as Edward has.

"Bells," he whispers feverishly, looking at me in wonder, "You're alive."

"I don't remember you," I tell him honestly.

"I figured that," he tells me, giving me a warm, familiar smile.

"How did you find me? Sam – he told me you were my fiancé."

"I'd always known where you were – everyone does. But I thought you were dead until you came back. Nobody comes out of this house alive," he's whispering now, his face white.

"_Why_?" I feel puzzled.

"Because of me," Edward speaks, looking at us with impassive eyes.

_**Edward**_

I can hear his heartbeat rising, his arms trembling with fear but still he shields her from me. Defiantly, almost.

I feel a surge of respect for him.

"What did you say?" Bella's eyes are on me, curious.

"I said, nobody gets out alive because of me."

A confused look passes over her face.

Jacob's holds her closer to him, panic growing in his eyes. He doesn't trust me now that I have admitted it. His thoughts are overwhelmed with images of me killing the both of them.

As her blood seeps through the bandages and onto his shirt, I hold out the bandage. He flinches as though I've brandished a knife at him.

"I'm not going to do anything. Wrap your fiancee's wounds," I say wearily. I set the bandage down onto the floor and turn to leave them, but Bella reaches out, catching my arm.

"Stay. Edward, please." Her eyes are wide with alarm, and I realize that I have overestimated her connection to the boy. His thoughts and memories of them together has been so strong, I almost forgot that she has none of these very memories. I would be leaving her with a stranger.

The boy's heart is breaking as she pulls free from him and put her arms around me instead. I feel relief – as though a heaviness has been lifted from my chest – and then guilt.

She is not mine.

I close my eyes briefly, trying to control my emotions.

She would go to him. Eventually, when she remembers, she would go to him. But for now, I will take his place.

I catch her, carrying her quickly into the bathroom before I remove the robe, rewrapping the bandages. One of the wounds needs to be restitched, and I do this too, quickly.

The boy sits outside, his thoughts warring between fear and heartbreak, between self-preservation and his love for her. He has come here for her, believing he would die.

As much as I love her, as much as it hurts me, I feel relieved. I could trust someone who loves her this much.

I tie the final bandage and lift her up like a child – one arm supporting her weight, another around her waist. She is so light, so fragile. Her head rests against my chest and the protective instinct reverberates within me, fierce and keeping the hunger far at bay.

"I love you," she whispers.

I only kiss her forehead.

_**Bella**_

As Edward carries me out of the bathroom, I am struck by how small Jacob seems. His knees are up against his chest, arms curled around them as he watches me forlornly.

He loves me, I can see that much. But he is a stranger to me. I do not remember him.

"Jacob?" I say softly. I need to talk to him, I need to know.

His eyes light up when I speak his name, and his shoulders straighten a little.

"Bella. I'm here." He takes my hand. I am aware of Edward leaving, but fully-clothed, I feel safe enough with Jacob.

The door shuts with a click.

Jacob stiffens.

"It's all right. He's a good person," I told him.

But Jacob is not listening. He treads lightly towards the door and tests the knob. It twists down easily, letting the door creak open.

He shuts it quietly.

"Sorry. I thought he locked us in," he whispers.

"He didn't," I say, sitting up. "He's a good person, like I said."

"Bella," his voice is urgent, his eyes intense. "He's not a good person. He kills people."

I look at him, feeling cold inside. "I kill people too. That's what the villagers said."

Jacob shakes his head violently. "I found out something about Sam."

Sam. It is the man who had led my execution. I feel myself turn white. Jacob nods grimly as he reads my expression.

"Yes. That Sam. I looked for him in the night," Jacob begins. He hesitates, and then forces himself to look at me in the eye. His voice comes out in a whisper. "I wanted to kill him."

I feel my eyes widen. Jacob's hand is warm around mine, but his eyes are hard. "I was grieving. I thought I'd lost you again." He closes his eyes. "Every single time… Every single time I couldn't save you."

He is silent for a while, and I squeeze his hand. "You did what you could," I say softly. I look at his bruised eye, at his cuts. "I don't blame you, Jacob."

He shakes his head. "I know you don't. But I should've protected you. The day I found the drawings… I should've taken you and run. But I didn't. I trusted Sam. I thought he would protect you." Anger flashed in his eyes. "He swore it to me."

"Did you kill him?" I ask quietly. I'm not sure which answer I was more afraid of.

"I would've," Jacob replied. "But he wasn't alone." Jacob's voice lowers, becomes more anxious. "There were creatures in his house."

"Creatures?" I feel goosebumps rising on my skin. Memories of the woods returned to me – of the disembodied voice that had called out my name.

"Yes. Creatures _howling._"

The door snaps open then and we both jump.

Edward stands in the doorway, an expression of utter displeasure on his face. "What creatures howling?"

His presence calm me instantly, but Jacob turn white as a sheet.

Edward set down a tray of biscuits at the bedside table, giving Jacob a severe look. "You shouldn't be telling her these nonsensical ghost stories."

"It's not nonsensical. I heard them with my own two ears." Jacob crosses his arms.

I watch with some interest. Jacob seems markedly less intimidated by Edward's irritation than his kindness. Is it because annoyance resemble normalcy more closely?

"I've never heard any howling."

"You're probably _doing_ the howling!" Jacob says, and then he winces, as though afraid he has gone too far.

But Edward's eyes only glitter with amusement. "Why, have you heard me howl too?"

Jacob's lips curl, and he press them together, as though trying not to smile. He seems to be fighting to decide whether or not to trust Edward.

As I watch them, I take a biscuit and bite into it. Jacob looks at me with horror.

"It's not poisoned, if that's what you think," Edward tells him, still looking amused. "It doesn't have any magic that binds you to this house or turns you into ants either. It's all superstition."

I nod in agreement, swallowing the biscuit to prove his point.

Jacob seems to struggle with this. "I don't understand. Why haven't you killed us yet?"

"Edward's not a killer," I say defensively. "He saved me. He's trying to help you too."

Jacob looks at Edward, and a silent communication seems to pass between them.

_**Edward**_

The boy looks at Bella as she speaks, and then his eyes move to watch me. And then it clicks in his head.

I see myself as he sees me, watching Bella.

He knows.

He knows that I care for her.

It doesn't make him think of me as any less of a monster, but it helps him relax. It surprises me, how much he loves her. He cares more for her safety than his own. I hadn't believed humans to be capable of such depth.

"I believe you," Jacob speaks to Bella.

He squeezes her hand, giving her a tender smile. She returns it, and then yawns. Her eyelids are heavy.

"You need some rest," I told her. "Sleep."

She looks between me and Jacob with some worry.

"We'll still be here when you wake up. I promise."

Jacob nods in agreement and I feel a small camaraderie beginning to form between us.

She gives us one last look, and then smiles. "All right."

Jacob helps position her more comfortably on the bed, adjusting her covers. I make a motion for him to follow, and he does, shutting the door behind him.

I begin to lead him down the stairs when he freezes, his fear returning.

"I just want to talk to you," I say, trying to appear as nonthreatening as possible.

"Why?"

I look at him, and tell him the plan that has been forming inside my head. "I need you to take Bella far away from here."

He looks startled, and I don't blame him.

"Why?"

"You know as well as I do that I'm no good for her," I say evenly.

Jacob swallows. He wonders whether to trust me. He thinks about Sam. He thinks about the village that they cannot return to. He knows he has no choice.

He follows me down the stairs.

We sit in the kitchen.

"There's nothing but the forest," Jacob says. "Unless you know of another village. Sam says we're the only people around."

"But you don't believe Sam now, do you?" I say. Jacob swallows again. An image flashes into his mind. He is crouched low, sitting in the bushes just under the window. Low voices speak from within the hut. And then there is howling. Not loud enough for the other villagers to hear, but loud enough to raise his hackles.

Loud enough to raise mine, as I hear it in his memories. I stare at him.

He was not simply being superstitious, as I initially believed. I would recognise those howls anywhere.

He'd heard the Children of the Moon.

My mind explodes with that understanding.

How long have they been here? What are they doing here? Why have they not attacked me? What is the villager _Sam _doing with them?

I grip the edge of my chair, trying to bring myself back to our conversation.

"No, I don't trust Sam," Jacob is saying.

"You're right not to believe him," I say. My mind is still racing, but being a century old, I have had enough practice of appearing calm and staying focused. "The world is far bigger than you have known it to be. I can help you out of this place. You can leave with Bella."

Jacob looks at me questioningly. _On what condition?_ His mind asks. "What do you want from us in return?"

Nothing, I want to say, but then I correct myself. "I have three conditions. First you'll vow to protect her with your life."

Jacob nods a little impatiently at this one. He has it down to a T.

"Second," I say this more quietly, "is that you vow never to tell her what I am."

He frowns at this, but I continue speaking. "Third, you must do everything in your power to make sure she does not return here to find me. Do you understand?"

Again, Jacob struggles to understand my motives. He turns it in his mind around and around, and finds nothing that can harm him or Bella.

"So if I swear to fulfil your conditions, you'll help us leave?" he says.

"Yes," I reply simply.

He thinks about it for a second. "You have a deal."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Can't believe it has been two years. I've been working on original work all this time. I'm going to try and finish this for the sake of closure though. Hope you guys like it. I would also really appreciate reviews, it gives me encouragement to continue :3 Have a great week!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

_**Bella**_

When I wake up, I am surprised to see Edward sitting at my bedside, watching me. I look around. Jacob is nowhere to be seen.

"He's asleep downstairs," Edward tells me softly.

Rubbing my eyes, I nod, and then turn to face him. There are a million questions I want to ask him.

"Edward…" I say, not knowing where to start. He leans forward on his hands.

I decide to start with the most difficult part – with the lie.

"We're not married."

"No." He does not try to deny it. His dark eyes – so dark that I cannot see his pupils – are open to me now. There is sorrow in them, and guilt. He has decided to bare his soul to me.

"Thank you," I say, reaching for his hand. He doesn't pull away – again, something new.

He only looks at me with some sadness. "That's the last thing you should say to me, Bella."

I shake my head. "No, Edward. Thank you for your honesty. Thank you for helping me, even though you have no reason to."

His lips curve, something gentle flitting across his expression. "You always manage to see the best in me."

It is so honest, so unexpectedly vulnerable coming from him that I feel the breath leave me. Why is he behaving so differently today?

He puts a hand over mine.

My heartbeat slows, relaxing at his touch. I feel warm. It is one of the few times he has touched me of his own free will – not out of the need to help or to comfort, but simply because he wants to.

"Is that all you want to ask, Bella?" His voice pulls me gently out of my thoughts.

No Edward, it isn't, I want to say. But I don't want to shatter this rare, wonderful peace between us.

"Can you… can you please come here?" I ask tentatively, holding an arm out. I expect him to sigh, to deny me, but to my surprise, he obliges.

He stands, treading with his long, graceful steps to sit beside me. At this proximity, I can see his features more clearly. His eyes are sunken, his skin waxy and pale. Like a dying flower, his beauty is waning.

I rest my hand on the side of his face, wishing I could rid him of his mysterious illness.

I press my warm body close to his cool one, and his arms come around me gently. There is something wrong, something different about them. The hum of strength I used to feel when he holds me is mostly gone – and I know that his life is slipping away.

"Oh, Edward…" I say softly, letting my fingers run down to his neck to rest on his shoulders.

He pulls back to look at me.

"Will you do something for me?" he murmurs, his nose just touching mine.

"What can I do for you, Edward?" I ask readily. I would walk to the ends of the earth for this man.

He doesn't reply immediately. Instead, he takes my hands, playing idly with my fingers. I wait patiently, feeling the brush of his cool skin against mine.

"I think you and I both know that I won't last much longer."

Blunt. To the point. I was glad for his honesty, but my heart plummets at the sudden turn of the conversation and I fight back the wetness in my eyes. I have to be strong, the way he is.

I steady my voice. "Tell me, what do you need?"

I would do anything. Anything to help him, even if I have to walk back to the village to get medication.

"I need," he hesitates, his eyes on my fingers. Exhaling, his thumb brushing my palm, his lashes are lowered. And when he finally speaks, his voice is soft, "What I need is for you to go. I don't want you to watch."

I hear, but don't understand. My mind doesn't want to. I begin to shake my head, but he touches my shoulder. "Listen to me, Bella. Please, it's the last thing I ask of you."

At this, I force myself to look back at him. His eyes are gentle. "It would make me happy. I would be more at peace knowing that you are safe and content somewhere than grieving at my side. It pains me to see you grieve."

I feel numb as the shock of his words slowly sink in. I would've done anything else. Anything, but this.

"Please," he implores earnestly, giving my hands a squeeze. "It would put my mind at ease."

I pull my hands away from him and stay silent for a moment. My heart feels like lead and I am frighteningly close to breaking down.

But I cannot.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. I must be strong for him.

"Do you truly want this?" I ask, searching his face. "Will it truly make you feel better?"

There is not a hint of uncertainty on his face. "Without a doubt, Bella."

When the initial shock wears away, all I can feel at first is anger. How could he ask that of me? How could he just give up so easily? I try to put myself in his position. If I were the one dying, if the situation was futile – I would want him with me. I would want him to hold my hand as I breathe my last.

But that is my first thought – my selfish thought. A new string of images comes to me – how would I feel, watching him grieve for me, as my life slowly faded away? To see his face twist with pain every time I felt my own agony. It would be an intensifier. I wouldn't be able to suffer peacefully. I wouldn't be able to let go.

Slowly, understanding dawns upon me, and for a long time, I can't bear to look at him.

When I finally meet his eyes – those sad, beautiful eyes – I wonder how much suffering he has quietly hidden away to appease me.

Emotion well up in my throat. "I'll do it."

His arms come around me. I blink away the stinging in my eyes and turn the remainder into passion.

I throw myself at him so hard that he almost stumbles off the bed. I kiss him everywhere, trying to memorize his skin, his scent.

Edward holds me tight – almost painfully so, and I let my face rest against his chest.

"I'll always love you," I told him.

I'd hoped he would reply, at least this time, but he doesn't. He runs his hands through my hair, kissing my forehead.

"Thank you," he whispers.

* * *

><p>I don't sleep for the remainder of the night. Hours pass and I move only to reposition myself against him. I touch his arms, his face, dreading the morning when I would have to go.<p>

And for once, he does not ask me to rest.

Perhaps he understands the enormity of the thing he asks of me. Because it is a terrible thing – to let go, to go about your life as though it is another ordinary day, when with each passing second you know that someone you love is closer to death.

A part of my soul has to be locked away. And though he wants me to be happy, that part of my soul will bleed and suffer. I could never be whole again.

But I would not tell him.

I cannot help him, and if peace is what I can give him, I would do it. Even if it means I have to face the gnawing ache for the rest of my life.

Dawn approaches unusually fast. The first rays brightens the window, marking a new day - but my heart does not rise with joy the way it usually does. I feel numb.

"Jacob should be awake soon," Edward says. I nod. He'd already told me that he'd spoken with Jacob. Jacob knew how to get us out.

I try to rise, but my wounds sear with pain. My back is smarting and throbbing, but at the same time, it kindles a hope in my mind.

"Edward, I don't think I can travel in my condition," I say. "Maybe we should wait a week or two."

A peculiar expression passes over Edward's face at my words – a cross between indecision and… apprehension?

He pauses, his arms still around me, and then a decision seems to come to him.

"Bella," he says. "Let me help you. Lie on your stomach."

I do as he says.

He begins to peel off my sticky bandaging. The motion burns my back like fire, and I grasp the sheets, trying to stay quiet.

Edward seems to be steeling himself for something.

"Bella," he says again.

"Yes?"

"I'm going to try something, all right? You can tell me to stop anytime."

I look at him with some confusion. "All right."

He dips his head, and then I feel him run his tongue across the wound on my left shoulder blade. I gasp, startled, and he pauses.

I feel the sting in the wound increase at first, and then I feel it itch, closing. Where there was pain before, now there was nothing.

Edward looks at me, waiting for my reaction. When I don't protest, he does the same down my right shoulder, my back.

I reach behind, touching the smooth skin, marred only by marks of blood from wounds that are no longer there.

"How did you- how did you do that?" I ask.

_**Edward**_

It is a simple mechanism. Normally, vampiric saliva seals wounds shut to trap the venom within the prey. To trap the poison within their skins, in their systems.

I'd always found it gruesome that our preys could not bleed the venom out. The venom would spread within their systems, paralyzing them with excruciating pain while we drain them of their life blood.

The mechanism is so deeply associated with death, and with pain that I'd never imagined it could be used for something like this. The idea had come to me so suddenly, as I was speaking to Jacob.

That it had worked, that Bella is no longer in pain, makes me smile. At least I am useful for this one last thing.

"It's a secret," I tell her playfully. The mood has been so dark, so depressing that I want to lighten it. I do not want to part ways like this.

But Bella does not smile.

Her face is pinched, unhappy. She rises, easily now, her naked breasts in full view, and then turns away from me, buttoning on her dress.

Perhaps it is better if she hates me. It would be easier for her to let go.

_**Bella**_

So many secrets.

I'll never see him again, and still he holds things from me. I bit back my anger.

He doesn't pursue me as I leave, going down the stairs. My heart aches.

"Bella," Jacob is waiting for me, already dressed. A hunting knife hangs on his belt. His expression is alert after the sleep. There is fresh medicine on his cuts.

As we step out of the door, I look back. Edward is coming down the stairs, his expression deliberately cheerful.

He presses something into my hands. "Take this," he says. "It has everything you need. Money, cards, the address to a house. When you reach it, find the man named Jenks. Jacob knows what to say," he nods at Jacob. "He'll help you arrange everything. Take care of yourselves."

I look at the bag in my hands. His words are a blur.

I'm still hurt by the secrets, still angry, but I throw my arms around him. "I love you," I whisper, my voice breaking despite my best effort. "I always will."

He gives me a light squeeze and murmurs, "Jacob is waiting."

I stay like that for a few more seconds before letting my arms drop.

"Ready?" Jacob says, his expression a little strained.

I would never be ready. "Goodbye, Edward."

He manages a weak smile. "Goodbye, Bella. Have a good life."

I watch him as Jacob leads the way, burning the image of him standing at the door into my mind, until he was too far away to see.

I walk numbly, the emotions I have been holding back so long finally coming back. My eyes fill up and I could not stop the silent trickling of tears no matter how hard I try.

Jacob squeezes my hand.

"It'll be okay," he says, "Everything will be okay."

He was wrong, so wrong. But I don't say so.

* * *

><p>I don't know how long we've walked. I feel dead inside, as though I've left my soul at the door with Edward.<p>

From what I've managed to retain of Jacob's murmurings, we've made a few wrong turns, losing precious time. We should have been reaching the road, or some sort of civilisation now, but we are still within the forest. Jacob uses a torch to light our way.

A cool wind blows. The leaves rustle around us, and the clouds part. I look up to see the moon tonight. A full moon.

"Bella," Jacob uneasy voice jerks me out of my stupor. He has been nothing but soothing, and the sudden note of apprehension is like a wake up call to me.

The forest is quiet.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

His form becomes rigid, and that's when I realize it. The forest shouldn't be this quiet. Something is nearby. Something so frightening that it has silenced the crickets and the birds.

I feel the hair at the back of my neck prickle, and grip Jacob's hand tightly, fear running down my spine like cold water.

Jacob pulls me slowly into him, his heart beating madly in his chest.

"It's all right, Bella," he whispers, his voice trembling. "It's all right. You're going to be all right."

His arms come around me, shielding me, his body blocking my vision so I don't see what happens next.

I hear a blood-chilling growl, and then I am crushed under his weight, and the weight of the thing – the animal. Then as fast as it came, the weight is gone.

Everything happened in less than a second.

Jacob screams above me – for an injury that has happened seconds ago – and I feel something sticky trickling down onto my clothes.

"Jacob!" I shout, my heart thumping loudly against my ribcage. "_Jacob_!"

"Bella," his voice comes out an agonized rasp. I struggle under his weight, looking around wildly for the animal, but see nothing.

The sky is dark – the moon once again behind clouds – and the torch has fallen a few feet away.

"Jacob, are you all right?" I ask, calming down enough to ask a coherent question.

"My arm – my arm…" he whimpers, but I cannot see anything. He regains enough awareness to remove his weight from me, and I run to grab the torch.

Jacob is still moaning in pain.

"Don't look at it," I instruct, as I come towards him with the torch. "It only makes the pain worse." I know it from experience.

He squeeze his eyes shut as I shine the torch on his arm. I barely manage to muffle the gasp from my lips.

There is a gash in his arm – it is twisted unnaturally, and is mangled so badly I can see the bone in several places. It makes me want to cry, looking at it.

My hands tremble as I rip my dress in strips. "Don't you worry," I say, as calmly as I can. "We'll be okay." I echo his earlier words, and he only nods, his eyes closed, his expression contracted with pain.

As I wrap his arm, pulling the cloth tight, the blood seeps, swift and wet through it.

_It will be okay. He'll be okay._ I pull the strips tighter, but his arm is bleeding from so many places that I am helpless, overwhelmed by it. The blood does not stop, and I make a decision.

"Jacob," I say quietly. "I'm going to have to wince a torniquet." I don't know where the word or the knowledge comes from, but I know it's true.

His voice comes out harsh, not a hint of hesitation. "Do what you have to."

My hands grab the hunting knife, slicing the leather bag straps. I fumble inside the bag for something else to use, finding a… photo frame? I don't have time to look at it, I snap off the back of the photo frame – the wooden support – and press it against the top of his arm where I wrap the bag strap. I twist it, tight, and he gasps. I use the wood to hold the twists in place before circling the remaining length around the bottom part to hold the wood in place.

I tie off the torniquet and continue to rip strips off my dress to dress the wounds at the bottom of his arm. It is working. The bleeding is stopping – or at least slowing.

"It's done."

Jacob looks up at me. "I'm lucky I got injured with the village healer around."

There is something in his eyes – _gratefulness_ – and I couldn't bear to look at him from my own shame.

This man loves me. Loves me enough to be willing to sacrifice his own life for me even as he watches me love another.

I feel a strong urge to apologize to him, but he embraces me before I can speak.

"It's okay, Bella. It's okay." His voice is breathless – from pain, but still, he comforts me.

I look up at his face – his barely-healed swollen eye, his bruises, and touch his cheek.

"Thank you, Jacob. Thank you so much." I feel my bottom lip tremble. The weight of his sacrifices is just beginning to sink in.

"Shh," he squeezes my shoulder. "I love you, Bella." His words ring sincerely.

I trace his cheek, my own heart beating a little faster. The words fall so easily from his lips, so honestly. His touch is warm, his eyes tender. I can understand how I could've loved this man, once, in a distant memory.

He is easy to love. Given a little time, I'm sure I can love him again.

"Come on, we better start moving again." There is fear in his voice.

I hold his hand tighter as a small breeze blows past our face. That was how it had started – with the wind.

"What was that thing?" I ask, afraid.

"I don't know," Jacob says grimly, "I hope it was just a stray wolf."

_**Edward**_

I hold the child down, easily, now that the moon is hidden.

"Don't move," I growl.

The boy is barely seventeen, and he looks up at me with a mixture of rage and fear.

How can someone so young be cursed with something so terrible?

The dagger is in my hand, and I intend to bury it in his shoulder. To wound him not fatally, but enough that he cannot pursue them when the moon returns. And badly enough that he would live to seek vengeance.

A quick death is something I would welcome.

"You're a child of the moon," I say slowly.

"And you're a vampire," he says, struggling. His eyes fall to my dagger. "Why do you need _that_? Not strong enough to kill me with your hands?" He tries to sneer, to seem fearless, but he's failing pitifully.

"Who turned you?" I ask.

His eyes are darting around. Searching for an escape.

"Who turned you?" I repeat.

He becomes unusually still as he looks at me with something like spite. "Maybe I'll tell you, if you tell me why you're so pathetically _weak_." He spits out the words, and I realize the reason for his sudden bravery.

The wind.

It is shifting the clouds, shifting the moonlight, and thus this boy.

I have to wound him now, while he's vulnerable. Once he transforms, I would be as helpless as a rag doll.

My dagger hand plunges as his body elongates. He tries to twist away, but he's too late. The dagger buries deep inside the flesh – and my eyes widen. I'd stabbed him – but not in the shoulder. Because of his struggle, my dagger had lodged itself straight through his heart.

His mouth opens as though he wants to speak – his fangs half-developed – and then the light goes out of his eyes.

I exhale, looking down at his form. His body is half-transformed when I kill him.

A pity, a mistake.

As I watch the blood pooling out of his body, an idea comes to me.

I could drink it, regain my strength to hunt, then I could find Bella. I could live for her, as I initially wanted to. Except Jacob – what was I going to do about him?

_She loves you, not the other boy_, the selfish voice in my head says. _She would be glad to see you_. I push the thought of Jacob out of my head to envision the hypothetical situation.

I would accompany her into old age, and then… and then what? Wait another century to die?

I would be depriving her of a beautiful life of normalcy. I would be taking away her choice in having children. And eventually, when she finds out what I am, I would be putting her life in danger.

Here, in the isolated wilderness of the forrest, the Volturi do not care what the people say. They are too uneducated to pose a threat. But there, in the city, it is a different story.

The people have weapons – nuclear weapons and bombs. It would be too risky to allow even one exception.

Jacob has an idea of what I am, but he does not know the specifics. He only thinks I am a monster, a killer. He would be safe enough, and if he manages to get Bella out of the forrest, she would be safe with him.

I listen to the sound of Jacob and Bella's fading footsteps, a safe distance away.

"Thank you, Jacob," I hear her say.

I can imagine her tender expression, her soft touch. And the boy deserves her gratefulness. He is brave – an honourable man, and better – a human. He's someone she deserves; someone with a soul, someone who could make her happy.

I yank the dagger out of the boy's chest, and continue to follow them, making sure they get out of the forest safely.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Wow, that was one long chapter. The longest one yet, I think. I hope it was to your liking – do review and let me know what you think :) **** It would make my day.**


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